Ill met by moonlight
by SarahBelle
Summary: A long dormant power is waking up and making itself gruesomely known in the island that it once ruled. Hellsing is forced into combat with those who refuse to remain legendary, as Samhain Eve approaches and borders between the worlds thin. V. slightly AU.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I don't really own any of this, excpet for characters which you shall see in chapters to come.**

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**This story mostly came about because I was extremely enamoured - if that is the right word - of Asenath's wonderful story _A Savage Place, _with faeries and centaurs and pixies and whatnot, and I was in turn extremely disappointed that it appears to have been abandoned. So I thought that it would be fun to try and have another go at writing a Hellsing story which included the message 'Think fairy. Think again.' (I nicked that from Eoin Colfer, by the way. That man is one of my heroes.)**

**So, enjoy my little attempt at reaching into the other 'sidhe' of things. (_Bad _pun, I know!) Asenath, if you're reading - this is for you. For everyone else - well, it's for you as well.**

**And yes,I did nick the summary from the back or Terry Pratchett's 'Lords and Ladies'.**

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Prologue

Siobhan had just finished changing the baby, and was putting her in her cot when she caught the flash of something out of the corner of her eye, from outside the nursery window; the billow of some type of material, from something in the garden.

Of course, she'd put the washing out earlier, but still…

Leaving Ciara in the cot, she made her way towards the window, put her hands on the sill and looked out into the garden, with its wonderful view of the surrounding countryside, just the sort of thing a growing girl should wake up to every morning; and with a full view of the swing under the tree only a little way from the house, which Patrick had installed as soon as they had moved in, even though it would be months before their daughter would be able to use it.

A blink, the fluttering of eyelids, and suddenly someone else was using it instead.

She stared at the red-haired, pale-faced girl in a dark, long skirted and long sleeved dress, sitting primly in the seat with her fingers wrapped around the ropes, swinging softly to and fro as if someone were pushing her gently – though there was no one else in sight at all, and there wasn't so much as a hint of a breeze in the garden. Her eyes were lowered and her head was slightly bent, as if in deep contemplation of something. Even with her face obscured by its position and her half trailing hair, Siobhan could see that she was a pretty girl, but she could also tell that there was something deeply, horribly _wrong_ about her, and not just by the fact that she had suddenly appeared from nowhere to sit in the swing-seat in her garden.

Memories of warnings they'd had from the locals, about the spirits and sprites which had haunted the house for generations, suddenly came back to mind, as she noted with the dull, dry beginnings of not-quite-terror in the back of her mouth, that the style and fashion of the dress the girl wore was at least two or three hundred years out of date; that the child was not just pale but almost unnaturally so, even on this hot day, as if she had no blood left to give her any colour; that her very hair itself seemed to be stirred by a non-existent breeze.

Behind her Ciara began to wail, as she usually did when she was hungry.

At that first pealing bawl, the girl's head jerked up, and her green eyes met with Siobhan's own blue. She hardly had time to be overwhelmed by the raw emotion she saw lodged there – loss, pain unimaginable, hopelessness and despair unmatched - before she was forced to blink; and as soon as she did so the girl was gone, as if she had never sat there in the first place, save that the swing still swayed gently, to and fro.

She stood staring for a few moments, before becoming aware that Ciara's wailing had stopped, and that the baby was no doubt catching her breath before she really let loose.

"All right, all right," she quipped, trying to shake off her dull horror of the moment as she turned and advanced to the cot to feed her daughter, undoing the strap of her overalls as she stepped forward. "I know what you want-"

And then she reached the cot, and saw what was in it.

Her scream brought her husband running, to find his wife, his strong willed, unshakeable wife, cowered in a corner and shrieking; and something in the cot that was most definitely not his baby daughter.

He'd seen eyes like that once or twice before, but never on something living.

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**'Ciara' is the Irish version of Claire. It has several different spellings, but I'm using the version of my cousin's name. Siobhan is...just an Irish name on its own, and it's devilishly tricky to pronounce if you don't have the know, i.e. 'She-vaun'.**

**Incidentially, does anyone know if Anderson is Irish or Scottish? Because frankly, with that accent, it's pretty hard to tell.**

**And yes, the Hellsing cast will turn up next chapter.**

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**Reviews for the half Irish seamstress, please!**


	2. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of this. Not at all. You'd know if I did.**

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Chapter One

Integral angrily stubbed out her cigar, as she threw the newspaper, complete with its idiotic headline and cretin-written front page article, to the floor. She wanted to line up the idiots who had written such trash, and use them for target practice. How dare they? How _dare _they?

_Is something wrong, Master? _Her servant's languid mental tones cut in upon her fury. _I feel your heat all the way down here, in my cold, cold cellar. Is the tea not to the knight's liking this morning? Or are you just missing your old brand of cigars?_

Integral did not deign to reply to his pointed barb, and forced herself not to shudder as she felt the vampire effortlessly skim through her thoughts of the last few minutes when he did not receive an answer. When he found what he was looking for, her head rang with her servant's odious laughter.

"_Devil worship in the noble ranks?" _he repeated, his mental sniggers cutting into her ears, try as she might to block them out. _"Tower of London possible site of ancient blood worship?"_ _"Are aristocratic family **Satanics?**" _He savoured that particular quote as if it were particularly delicious, knowing that it rankled within her mind from whence he had plucked it.

_Oh dear, Master. Some British journalists have overactive imaginations, or so it would seem._

"I should feed those morons to you, like I did with that blonde bimbo of a reporter," Integral retorted darkly, as she paced the length of the study to get herself as far from the offending words as she could. Since the destruction of the tobacconists in the capital where she had previously purchased her cigars, she had had to make do with a lesser brand during her imprisonment in the Tower with less than good grace, and even now the marginally better brand did nothing to calm her. Only one day into her release from her unwarranted imprisonment, and already she felt like killing something.

Fantasizing about disposing of idiotic newspaper journalists would have to do, if only for the moment.

_Trying to fob me off with journalists, Master? _Alucard murmured, getting her mind back on track. _It won't work. I have standards too, you might be interested to know. Not to mention that that Kim's blood was nothing, less than nothing, compared to-_

"_Enough." _Integra stamped her way back to her desk, and sat down heavily. "I have told you before that I will not tolerate any further mention of such matters. Would you prefer me to use more practical methods to get it into your head? Such as a blood ration?" She hit him where she knew it would hurt most, in his desire for blood – at least, she _hoped_ that was where it would hurt the most - but she didn't particularly care at the moment if she injured his pride and appetite or not.

Internally she was still fuming at some of what she had read in the morning paper; statements that spit upon the memory of her father and her poor dead commander and upon her whole organisation; paragraphs of sheer bullshit that condemned all the efforts of her men as nothing more than terrorist actions and crimes against the state. The duty of the Hellsing organisation had always been to go un-thanked for their endeavours to keep the rest of this ridiculous, wonderful island safe; but to allow her soldiers to be labelled as criminals, to have them remembered as traitors to their nation, even if it had not truly been their nation…that she just would not do. She would shoot all these journalists, these reporters, those who assumed that they knew and judged by what they assumed, down in flames, and their claims with them. And in the case of those who had wrongfully imprisoned her, she might actually shoot them.

Preferably in the head.

_So angry, simply because I compliment you on the delicious taste of your blood, Master? Or perhaps it's the remembrance of being locked up that rankles within you? _She could feel Alucard chuckling, down in his dank cellar, as her mind burned with anger at the memory of the handcuffs, made of cloth though they had been, that had restrained her wrists. _Oh come, come, dear Master, let us not become over dramatic. After all, you were only in that cell for – what was it? Two weeks? Whereas_ I_ was chained up in _my _dungeon for nigh on twenty years. And _you _were fed in the meantime. Some might say you had it relatively easy._

His mirth was still evident in their minds, as well as his smugness and her long stewing rage – both of them knew full well that, in the end, the servant had taken his spell of imprisonment far better than his master. Twenty years, after all, was nothing to a creature who had, for want of a better word, 'lived' for close on five centuries, and would without severe impediment continue to exist until Judgement Day; whereas she, the daughter of the honourable house of the Hellsings, the Virgin of the Order, had barely coped with being interned under the earth for a fortnight. At the time, to her, it had been practically an eternity.

_And after all, _the vampire went on, more softly now, his voice trickling into her brain and her very limbs, _it is not as if I did not offer you a way out-_

"_Shut up." _Integral slapped away his oozing mental tendrils, shaking her head to be free of him and his vile suggestions. "Shut up and go away. Go back to sleep, like a normal vampire, why don't you?"

_Normal? I am anything _but _normal, dear Master. Especially now._

"And don't I know it." She pulled a pile of letters towards her, blanking out any further snide comments from Down Below with only marginal effort as she picked up the first one, ready to open it.

However, that self-control shook, and the hiss that escaped from between her teeth was like a fissure running through it and spreading cracks, as she caught sight of the wax seal fastening the envelope.

Section Thirteen.

_Iscariot._

She sank the letter opener into the flap of the envelope as if she was plunging it into a ghoul's head, ripped the dull blade across, pulled out the letter and flipped it open.

It took about half a minute for her to read the whole letter, quick reader as she was, and barely a second more to impale it upon her desk with the letter opener.

_Master? _Alucard, shut out as he had been from her mind for the last few minutes, was naturally curious.

"Shut up," she repeated, as she seized the telephone on her desk, and punched in speed-dial. "Busy."

There was only time for one ring on the other end before the receiver there was picked up, giving her barely any time to prepare herself and grit her teeth against _that_ odious voice, that now slithered into her ear. In the corner of her mind, she felt Alucard bunch up in disgust.

"Sir Integral? I _thought_ I might be receiving a call from you right about now."

"Your sense of timing is uncanny, Maxwell," she replied, as coolly as she could manage. "Let us get straight to the point. For what possible reason, having perused your correspondence, should I acquiesce to the propositions stated therein?"

"So many long words, Sir Hellsing. Please remember than English is not my first language."

She couldn't tell whether he was being sincere or snide. She suspected the latter, as she gritted her teeth. "I'll be more precise, then. What makes you think that I will allow that rabid dog of a priest of yours anywhere _near_ my country?"

"Because it is the express order of His Holiness himself. If you go against that, Sir Hellsing, there may be…consequences. And I doubt your little organisation needs any more trouble at the moment."

He was right, of course. That didn't make it any better; it made it worse. She rubbed her fingers over her tired eyes, wishing they were Maxwell's sea-green ones instead…

…then she'd feel less pain and more satisfaction if she 'accidentally' gouged them out in her anger and frustration.

"I see your point, Maxwell. But I do not see any reason why Anderson has had to be called in. If there is a crisis on my own turf, I can still take care of it more than adequately, without the help of the Vatican."

"Really? With your forces depleted, your very agency in jeopardy, you yourself still under suspicion, and your only servants those you refuse to destroy, though it is your sworn duty to do so? And in any case, that area is out of your jurisdiction, Sir Hellsing. It is the responsibility of the Holy Catholic Church to maintain spiritual order there, _not_ the responsibility of the English crown. Need I go any further?"

He was right, again, curse him. That particular part of the world had been off limits to the organisation ever since it had first been set up, and they both knew it.

Well, if this had to be, at least it would be on _her_ terms.

"Very well, then, Maxwell. Her Majesty's government will allow your agent to pass through this country, on the way to his assignment, though be left in no doubt whatsoever that he will be kept under strict, armed surveillance while he remains on English soil."

"_Really,_ Sir Hellsing? Then your people can not have been doing a very good job so far."

Warning bells went off in Integra's head, even as she felt Alucard tense in anticipation. It really did feel disgusting. "What do you mean, Maxwell?"

"Anderson never left your country, Sir Hellsing." The odious man's unseen smirk was practically oozing out of the receiver. "According to his reports, he has been lodging in London, near Oxford Circus – until your pet vampire blew it up, of course."

Integra gripped the phone so hard the plastic it was made from creaked, in an attempt not to completely lose it, which she was sure was what Maxwell was hoping for. "You mean to tell me that that _bloody _maniac has been running around _my_ country unchecked and unannounced!"

"Indeed, Sir Integral," Maxwell purred happily. "We reasoned that your island might need more protection than your little, small agency would be able to provide. Judging by the affairs that I have witnessed on the news for the past few weeks, not to mention the general state of your capital after your vampire had finished having his fun, we were right to be cautious."

_Well, the Catholic's got one thing right at least._

"Don't even _think _about telling me that you enjoyed trashing the place, Alucard," she muttered under her breath, putting her hand to her forehead to quell her sudden headache. She was positive that she could feel a vein swelling from pressure, though it might be her imagination. "And I thought I told you to shut up."

"Pardon, Sir Integral?"

"Nothing, nothing," she grated through clenched teeth. "Since your situation at present seems to be so _very _pressing, I will not be able to take action as I wish concerning this matter." Her eyes narrowed, more for her own satisfaction than for any real effect, since there was no way Maxwell could see her. "But I assure you, Maxwell, there _will_ be repercussions for this breach of treaty." If that scum thought he could get away with this, then he was so very wrong.

"I never expected anything less from you, my Lady Hellsing. Perhaps I can heal the breach a little by forwarding details of our agent's departure arrangements?"

"I doubt it; but if you ever want the Vatican to be able to have any chance of negotiations with this country again, it would be advisable. Good_bye_, Maxwell." She slammed the phone down, making it ring.

There was silence in the office for a while, as she breathed deeply, trying to get her blood pressure back to normal.

_I think he fancies you, you know, Master._

"I'm going to be generous and pretend I didn't hear that."

_Says she who was fantasising about his sea green-blue eyes._

"Fast forward a little, and you'll see I had other designs on those eyes than sighing over them, servant."

_Verily. So, what is the outcome of all this 'negotiation'?_

She leaned back in her seat, still thinking deeply. "Worst case scenario, Alucard, is that you're going to Ireland."

_To wipe out the Judas priest?_ Alucard's abrupt eagerness was infectious in her mind; it was all she could do not to sit up straight in her seat with excitement that was not hers. It gave her a grim delight to curb it.

"Not as a hit-man, Alucard. You'd be escorting him, so that would mean no shooting whatsoever." Integral grinned as she heard him whine, much more like a dog than anything man shaped.

_But **Master- **_he began, sounding almost pathetic.

"Enough, servant. If I _do_ send you overseas with the Paladin, I shall expect you to behave yourself, as is fitting. This is a diplomatic mission, after all, not a shooting fest for you to get some target practice in."

_Very well, Master, _came the sulky reply from the cellars.

"However…" Integra drummed her fingers on the desk, her mind understandably recalling memories of the last time Anderson had 'graced' England with his presence, and the men she had lost as a result of it.

_However? _Alucard prompted.

"However, if he _does_ go berserk at any time during his mission, I am _sure_ Hellsing's healthy policy towards maintaining the security of the nation, and of itself, would find no problem with you blowing his head off."

_The Vatican might, _he said, but with much more enthusiasm.

"The Vatican started this in keeping his presence in this country a secret. If we have to, we'll finish it."

_A very healthy attitude. So, what _is _the chance of his going rogue?_

"Unfortunately for you, quite a small percentage; assuming that you accompany him at all." She looked again at the details of the letter. "It is a small mission – very small, with only one target, and one purpose." Her lips twisted at the word printed in block capitals.

"Assassination."

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**Review, please!**


	3. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: I do not own. Except some bits…I don't own Hellsing though!**

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Chapter Two

It was at exactly midnight that George heard the scream, since it came just as he was checking his watch to see when he came off his shift. It only lasted for a mere fraction of a second before it was cut off, but that fraction was enough to make him unconsciously grope for the gun.

That had sounded like Eoin.

_Where are the others?_

He was in a dilemma about what he wanted to hold. At least, he was certain that he wanted the torch, because being in the dark was the very last thing he wished for at the moment. If he suspected that something was amiss, he was supposed to use the walkie-talkie to contact the others and raise the alarm; but that memory of that scream coming out of the dark, from no particular direction, left him longing desperately for the gun.

Training won through. Ducking into an alcove created by piles of masonry, he pulled out the walkie-talkie, only to be greeted by static when he tried to reach Eoin. He attempted to contact Mike and Paddy, with the same result; a flat, cold buzzing. Something was jamming the signal.

He shoved the useless contraption back into his belt, and grabbed the gun; here was something he could rely on. He crept out of the alcove, keeping his back close to the pile of building material, so that there was at least one direction he could not be approached from. He crept along, keeping the torch trained in front of him.

He rounded the corner, and bit his lip to stop himself from yelling out loud at what lay on the ground, practically at his feet.

He knew that whoever it was, they were dead. Living people were expected to have more above their shoulders than the smoking stump of a neck.

_Where's the blood? _he thought stupidly.

There was a noise behind him, of metal scraping along something else, like a sword being pulled from its sheath.

He jerked around, flashing the light of the torch at where he hoped the person's eyes would be; hoping that the light would blind them long enough so that he could get a shot in.

Pale, pupil-less eyes narrowed menacingly.

The torch slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, to land with a crunch at his feet as the bulb shattered. The light guttered, and went out.

Fine, sharp teeth were bared in a snarl, shining out of the dark, like devil's fangs in an angel's glowing face.

He didn't waste time screaming, or staring, or trying to shoot. He turned and ran for it.

He only made it three paces before the sword bit his head off.

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Integra did not have high hopes for this new recruitment policy Walter was employing. Of course, beggars couldn't be choosers, as the butler would have said in the days before her ascension to the head of Hellsing; they were lucky that anyone was still willing to be hired by them at all, considering what had happened to many – really most - of the previous soldiers in the organisation's employment.

However, as she looked at what was sitting on the other side of her desk, she really did wish that Walter could have been a bit more of a chooser.

The eye-patch she could perhaps understand. Perhaps. The glimpse of the blackness of a tattoo on his wrist, as his hand rested on the armrest of the chair…maybe. But the _braid? _

_What kind of man wears his hair in a waist-long braid?_

But she had to admit, his credentials were good – or at least, as good as they could be for a soldier of fortune – and they probably weren't going to get any candidates better than this at short notice.

She made her decision.

"Well, Captain Bernadette," she began, leaning forward to address him, "It seems that you and your 'Wild Geese' have quite a few successes to be taken into account. Your last employer seemed to hold you in high regard, before his death."

The man smiled, and she had to work hard not to be taken in by its warmth. "As long as the price is right, Sir Hellsing, we'll fight to whatever death comes first – our employer's, or ours." His French accent was evident as he spoke.

"An admirable sentiment. I can tell already that you will be useful. Very well." She nodded slightly to Walter, who stood beside her. "Walter, make a note. A letter to be sent to the Queen, stating that Captain Bernadette and his colleagues, more commonly known as the 'Wild Geese', have entered the service of Hellsing, under the command of her devoted knight, Sir Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing." _And may my father forgive me, _she added as a mental afterthought.

Walter nodded, with a murmur of assent. Although his broken arm prevented him from making any notes on paper at this time, his phenomenal memory meant he could easily store large amounts of information for the letters she had planned over the last day and a half.

The captain, however, out of the corner of her eye, appeared to be rather taken aback at her last words, particularly her name. She regarded him coolly over the rims of her spectacles.

"Is something wrong, Captain?"

"Um…"

The man looked slightly uncomfortable, and his single eye seemed to refuse to want to meet hers.

"Well, no offence, _milady,"_ his first utterance of that hated word deliberately stressed, as if hoping that he hadn't caused offence for not using it before, "but the bloke who recommended you to us…"

Her quirked eyebrow sparked a sudden rush of words on his part. "He kinda implied that you were a chap."

_So that's it? _Integra felt herself relax slightly, even as she had to block out Alucard's mental sniggers – he always enjoyed it when people got her gender wrong. He claimed that she asked for it. And perhaps she did. But that was _no _business of his, or of this hired mercenary who killed people not for honour or justice, but for money.

"Reports of my gender have been greatly exaggerated, Captain." Her mental smirk widened at the uncomfortable look that flashed across the man's face. Beside her she could tell Walter was doing his best not to laugh. "Let me put your doubts to rest at once. I _am_ most definitely female, even if I do not always look it. Does that _bother _you in any way?"

"Ahm, no-"

"Good. Then let us say no more on the subject. Except for the fact that, if you are going to work for me, Captain Bernadette, you will refer to me as _Sir_ Hellsing. Not Lady Hellsing, and certainly not 'milady'. Is that clear?"

The man blinked. The smile that had disappeared when the revelation had come was creeping back, though he obviously didn't quite dare let it show fully. "Absolutely, Sir Hellsing."

"Very good." She pushed back her chair, and rose from her seat. "Now, if you will accompany me, Captain, I wish to see your troops. I like to see what kind of an investment I have made."

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It was good to be out in the daylight, even if she couldn't run the risk of feeling its warmth directly upon her skin for more than a little while. Seras couldn't remember the last time she had had the luxury of simply sitting in the shade in a garden at midday, even before she had been turned.

It was all down to Master's blood. Before the Tower, she could hardly even go outside during the day when the sun was shining. Now she didn't even need the special glasses that had been made for her. A tiny part of her was nagging at her that she should have drunk his blood long before this, and far more than that mere, forlorn lick when she had held his head in her arms when she had believed him to be truly gone. Then she would be able to do so much more than simply sit out in the daylight; she could endure even the sun upon her skin for long periods of time, full in her eyes. And much, much more…

But she had quelled it, as she had forced it away the first time he had offered her his blood. For now, she would be satisfied with what the small taste of Alucard's blood had given her.

It was odd; ever since that single taste, she found it easier to call him Alucard, rather than _Master…_

A twinge of pain from the part of her leg not covered by her skirt or stocking alerted her to the fact that her erstwhile shade was gradually shrinking as the sun continued on its progress, and it was time to go in. She still could not stand full sunlight for long, though she was growing gradually better at enduring it.

As she stepped back in through the French windows, the coolness and shade of the mansion washed over her like a blessing; but also somewhat like a curse. She knew full well that while she could learn to tolerate the sun as Master, Alucard, did, she would never fully enjoy it again as she had done when she was human.

Her acute hearing picked up the sound of jabbering voices, not too far away from the room she was in. Men's voices, brash and loud, slightly foreign sounding in this normally quiet environment. She guessed that those must be the mercenaries Walter had said Sir Integra might employ. She had been warned by him to keep her distance from them, at least until they were certain that they would be added to the payroll, lest she frighten them off.

_No fear, _she thought in an uncharacteristically savage manner, as she made her way to the door. She did not want these new men to replace her old, fallen comrades, just as they had replaced the ones who fell before them. She knew it was a ridiculous sentiment, one Master would certainly mock her for, but replacing those she had fought alongside anew seemed to her to be mocking the dead, as well as herself; reminding her that she would continue to lose and bury comrades again and again…perhaps forever.

She wanted her old comrades back. Not just because she wanted to see them again, and have Ferguson reprimand her and at the same time be proud of her, and have all of those she had associated with greet her by name, perhaps even smile at her, however nervously…but because she was so, so selfish.

_They'd only _just _gotten used to me._

If Sir Integra hired these men, it would start all over again. And, Undead though she was, the very prospect of it brought her skin out in horrid gooseflesh.

She stepped out into the corridor, preparing to walk in the opposite direction from where the mercenaries' voices were coming from, when she was distracted by the presence of two people, approaching. She paused, her hand still on the door handle, wondering if she should duck back inside the room – she had promised to stay out of the way, after all. But what if they intended to come in there? She couldn't very well nip out into the sun filled garden; not if she didn't want to escape without burning her flesh.

One of them was Sir Integral. She could tell by her scent, so distinctive, so crisp, clean, and fresh. The other was a man; and just the hint of his airborne signature was enough to send her vampiric senses into overdrive. He smelled so…she didn't know how to describe it. So _good. _Her fingers gripped the door handle uncontrollably.

"But, sir, you can't really ask me to tell my men that from now on they'll be hunting things that go bump in the night!" The male voice that floated around the corner was tinged with a French accent that, while not exactly seductive, would have the heart of many a human girl beating faster in a trice. As it was, Seras found herself leaning forward eagerly towards its source, before remembering herself and drawing backwards into the doorway.

"I'm not asking you to, Captain. I'm expecting you to. Your men, however good they are, should have some idea of what they will be facing, as well as how to defeat it."

"But…but…_vampires?" _the owner of the voice spluttered, as they drew nearer, practically right around the corner. "Like Dracula? They'll never believe it. And I'm not entirely sure I do, either."

"Whether you believe in the creatures of the night or not is none of my concern, Captain Bernadette." Sir Integral rounded the corner, both looking and sounding extremely bored with the man that swiftly followed her – if it was a man; that waving snake of a plait tucked neatly over his shoulder gave her confused senses pause for thought. "But if you don't know how to dispatch them, they'll rip your throat out if you believe in them or not."

Seras quickly made to nip back into the room, but by now the knight had spotted her, and called out. "Officer Victoria!"

"Sir Integral?" she asked obediently, leaving the door way and stepping into the middle of the corridor. She met Integral's eye far more easily than she had in recent months as she and the odd, good-smelling man approached; during the escapade in the Tower when Incognito and Alucard had raged overhead, something simply seemed to have clicked between the two women. What rite of passage it was that she had passed, Seras did not know, but ever since Integral had returned from her fortnight of imprisonment she had treated the young vampire with marginally more respect.

"I am glad to have caught you," Integral said now, as she stopped in front her. "This," she added as she gestured to the strange man, the Captain, who now stood beside her, "is Captain Bernadette, leader of the 'Wild Geese', the members of which from now on you will be working with."

"Understood, sir." Seras turned to smile at Bernadette, only to have it wither upon her lips as she realised where his one eye was directed and focused.

_Oh, for the love of…! Are _all_ the men Sir Integral hires secret perverts? _She shared a glance with the knight, who shot her a smirk from the corner of her mouth, before speaking again. "Officer Victoria, Captain Bernadette, has been with this organisation for many months now, and has proved her worth more than once in the line of battle. We consider her one of our most valuable soldiers."

Seras felt a surge of pride at her employer's words, but it was quickly swallowed by her growing irritation at the man's ogling of her figure. He obviously noticed her annoyance, and grinned at her in a manner that no gentleman would use. That settled it. He was most definitely a pervert, interesting smell or no interesting smell. And underneath that particular smell…she had to restrain herself from wrinkling her nose. What had he been _doing _last night? Or rather _who? _Good grief!

"Victoria, the Captain is eager to work for us, but has expressed some doubts about the…nature of our foes." Had the man been looking at Integra now, he probably would have been running for the hills. Her smile gave Seras the go-ahead: _He's had his fun, and his eyeful. _

"Has he, sir?" Seras turned back to look Bernadette full in the face. She let a smile curve her lips, earning another grin from him. Then she let her lips part, giving him a full view of her teeth.

She watched with interest as he quickly lost his grin, his jovial air and all the colour in his face, in rapid succession.

"You know," she said gently, taking a step forward, "I didn't use to believe in vampires either. That was before I became one, of course." She was impressed by the fact that he hadn't shrunk away from her, though she suspected that was because he was too shocked at present to move.

"Now," she went on, taking his unresisting arm, "let's go and tell your men the good news."

* * *

Alucard was bored.

Integral had forbidden him to go anywhere near the mercenaries, at least until if and when they were safely hired; which meant that he was stuck in the cellar until further notice. And he was _bored._

He had been bored ever since he had stuck Incognito like a pig on top of Saint Paul's. That was the worst thing about his fights, if he cared to list all the bad things…which were few. Once the best ones were over, it left him starving on the memories of it, not knowing when he would encounter another enemy worthy of him.

Integra thought he was battle-mad and blood-crazed. And perhaps he was. In fact, he knew he was. But such battles were, in all truth, one of the few things that interested him after five hundred years.

That, and Integra. Integra made his mouth water, without even trying. Often because she didn't try. She tried so hard. That was what made her all the more so, _so _delicious.

"Alucard?"

Walter's voice woke him out of contemplations about the Master. Better to leave them for later…then he could savour them all the more. Instead, he focused on the sight of Walter carrying a bucket of iced blood in his one good hand, and with a newspaper tucked under his arm.

"You carried that all the way down here for _me? _I am touched, Angel of Death."

"Sir Integral's order." Walter placed the bucket with care upon the table. He took a testing sniff of its scent.

"A-type? She certainly is spoiling me. She usually only does this when she wishes to distract me from some other purpose."

"I wouldn't know," Walter said calmly. "Also, what with your excitement about your possible trip to Ireland, I thought you might want to have a look at this." With great dexterity, the aged assassin pulled out the newspaper and spread it out next to the bucket. "Seven security guards were found slain in a building site in County Meath early this morning."

"A Freak attack?" Alucard asked, without much interest. Coming down to Freaks again, after battling against such an adversary as Incognito and his godling helper, was degrading – not to mention incredibly dreary.

"Unlikely. The victims were all found with their blood still present. Totally accounted for, in fact, despite the fact that each one appeared to have had his head lopped off."

The vampire felt as something had hooked in his mind, drawing his attention. "Lopped off?"

"Completely clean. As if the blow didn't even give them time to bleed." Walter gazed grimly through his monocle at his old comrade. "Alucard, you know as well as I do that this was no Freak attack. They don't use weapons like this. And they certainly don't leave blood – or rather, this lack of it."

Alucard stretched. "Why bring this news to me? Shouldn't my Master know first?"

"She has been engaged with Captain Bernadette. As a matter of fact, the business transactions have been completed. The Wild Geese will definitely join Hellsing."

"Excellent." Alucard grinned, as he let himself slip into shadows and fade from the cellar with barely an effort. "Then it's time I should go to greet the guests, isn't it?"

He ignored Walter's tired sigh as he set off to take a look at these mercenaries, paid soldiers. He was quite looking forward to it.

It had been more than two weeks since he had made anything scream.

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I am using Seras's appearance in the manga as my reference at this point – this way, her eyes don't turn red until she becomes True Undead. Thus, she looks like a normal human at this point – at least, until she smiles.**

**Of course, there may be those that say that by licking up Alucard's blood in the Tower, she _did _become True Undead, so her eyes should be red anyway, besides her having gained more confidence and less likelihood to burst into flames in the sun.**

**To this I plead: AU.**

**County Meath is a county in Ireland, next to the county of Dublin – yes, Dublin's a county as well as the capital city of the place. Historical importance convinced me to set some of the story here, though other parts of Ireland will be included as well.**

**And finally: Integra's opinion of Pip is basically my own when I first saw him in the manga – before I found out what a kick-ass character he really was.**

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Review for the half-Irish seamstress, please?**


	4. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the ideas in this. except, you know, the main one of bringing it all together.**

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Chapter Three

"_The Legend of County Meath?"_ Integra looked over the top of the newspaper at Walter, one eyebrow raised. "What's so _legendary_ about people getting their heads cut off? They still seem to manage it today, I find."

The butler coughed. "I believe it is in reference to the Washington Irving story, Sir Hellsing: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. The Headless Horseman, riding out at night and cutting the heads off any unsuspecting traveller, then riding back to hell with his spoils."

"Hmmm." She focused on one particular paragraph. "If the shoe fits, then wear it, I suppose. It says here that the heads of the security guards were nowhere to be found."

"Correct, sir."

Integra mused for a moment. "This wasn't a Freak attack. It's not like them at all."

"Exactly as I fathomed, sir."

She nodded in acknowledgement, before going on. "If not, then can we assume that it was some other type of vampire? Perhaps – she gritted her teeth before going on – "a _dearg-due_?" It was the only type of Irish vampire she knew of, having learnt the various vampire legends of the world by heart before she had reached puberty; her mouth stumbled over the unfamiliar words, while her blood boiled at the thought of the creature supposedly related to her suggestion – the _baobhan sith_. Inevitably, her still bandaged neck ached at the very inkling of the disgusting creature. She had to force herself not to reach up to touch the wound.

"Ah…no," Walter replied tactfully, after some thought. "Apart from the fact that Alucard staked out the last remaining successor to that title back in the 1930s, and took steps to ensure that another would never arise, it emerged only once per year, and would have been content to seduce one man into her embrace, rather than several. Besides, it was exclusive to Waterford, where the original lady's tomb was."

"Of course." Integra sat back in her seat, and strained her mind. What could possibly be the cause of such foul murders? It didn't help that she had a splitting headache, from being unprepared for those mercenaries to start screaming like pansies when Alucard had walked through the wall, though she had done her best not to show any discomfort. Secretly, she had been rather amused that six foot tall, tattooed, muscle-bound soldiers could hit the same notes as a five year old girl. Still, their reaction had done nothing for her head. She wanted an aspirin.

No, on second thoughts, she wanted a _good _cigar, and _then _an aspirin.

"Sir Integral?" Walter's voice cut into her crowded thoughts. "Perhaps we could take into account that this incident _isn't _the work of a vampire?"

"Oh? Then perhaps an axe-man wielding a convenient cauterising machete?" she replied dryly, now fighting the urge to massage her temples instead of her neck.

"No, Sir Integral," he said patiently. "Perhaps some other supernatural being. Compared to the rest of Europe, we know relatively little about Ireland, or its underworld."

As she listened, an idea flowered into Integra's mind. Yes, they didn't know much about Ireland. She had already been reminded yesterday of that very fact; Ireland was supervised by the Vatican. To intrude there would be tantamount to breach of contract and treaty. But…

"You're right, Walter. We do not know much about the state of Ireland. But that will soon change."

The butler blinked in outright surprise, something he very rarely showed. "But, Sir Integral, our troops are not allowed in Ireland. The Vatican…"

"Yes, normally such is the case, Walter," she said smoothly, sitting back in her seat and steepling her fingers. "However, I have made up my mind that Anderson shall be accompanied by at least _two_ members of this organisation, and while in order to escort him they have to set their feet on Irish soil, I do not believe that there is any particular line in any particular treaty concerning what _one_ of those members does while the subject is being escorted from and to the airport. Why, if they are already there, then there is _no_ law against them going…shall we say, sightseeing."

Walter stared at her for a few seconds, before she smiled, in what she knew Seras had _supposedly_ secretly dubbed her 'someone's-going-to-die' grin, and his lips curved in reply.

"Sometimes, Sir Integral, you remind me so much of your late father that it is unearthly."

"Indeed, Walter. It will take more than Enrico Maxwell and his pet priest to take the dignity from _me_."

* * *

Seras felt as if she were teaching a group of rowdy little boys. She had never really been very fond of children, though she did her best to be generous towards them, and this was even harder when her audience was a group of grown men all seemingly about a foot taller than her, and many with brawny arms twice the size of her own.

Of course, she knew that she herself was probably stronger than most of these blokes put together – but it was the principle of the thing.

At the moment, they were performing less than well at shooting practice, supervised by her since the day had turned overcast and cloudy, allowing her to go outside again. It wasn't that they were _bad _at it – in fact, she grudgingly conceded, they were at least as good as her old comrades, and perhaps even better – but they simply wouldn't take this _seriously._ They hit the targets, certainly, but she had the sneaking suspicion that they were doing it more to show off, both to each other and to her, seeing what they could hit. Other girls who would be more impressed with muscled, tanned men (and who presumably liked guns) would have gasped in awe over one particular chap shooting all the fingers off the hands of one particular target, but she herself was more concerned about whether he could actually hit the head or heart every time.

"Look, I've _told_ you about three times," she said exasperatedly, once this particular show-off had finished. "The creatures that you're going up against aren't going to be put off by being shot in the arm or leg, and certainly not by losing a few fingers. If you have to shoot them anywhere, shoot them in the _head_:" tapping a temple with her finger, "or the _heart_." She followed this up with a soft jab in her chest. "Got that?"

The mercenary gulped, muttered something in the affirmative, and turned back to his target, flushing.

She preened for a moment, thinking that she had really made an impression, before realising just how the impression had been made – with her bust.

_Idiots, I'm _surrounded_ by idiots!_

Scowling, she made her way onwards and out of the concrete maze.

And here was _another _problem.

Captain Bernadette – whom she had secretly dubbed 'Mr. Pervert' – was among a group of Hellsing's new troops, glaring ruefully at a far away target. As she approached, Bernadette raised the firearm, aimed and fired; and as she expected, the charge fell woefully short of the mark, namely a jeep of hostages surrounded by a group of crudely painted Freak vampires.

"What's the matter?" she asked, as she walked up. "Is the target too far away or something?"

"Yep," Bernadette said cheerfully, belying his apparent strop, stepping back. "Unfortunately, we haven't _all_ got telescopic sight or some such thing." He seemed to have quite gotten over his nervousness at the sight of her fangs and what they meant, worse luck, which meant he was ogling her breasts yet _again._

"You could have fooled me," she said sweetly, stepping forward. "Let me show you how we do it here in Hellsing."

"Be my guest," he replied smartly, holding out the gun, purposefully gripping it by the stock in such a way that her fingers would have to brush over his in order to take it.

She raised one eyebrow and took it by the barrel, ignoring the heat of the metal. She held it in one hand, sighted down the barrel – _ah, this is _so_ easy! _– focused, and then fired. She smirked at the satisfactory explosion that flared in the distance, right on target.

"See? _That's_ how you do it!" she said, turning to Bernadette…

…who was smirking all over his stupid, handsome face.

"Look again, _mignonette_," he said, pointing towards the flaming remains of the target. "You hit the hostages as well!"

Sniggers broke out among the mercenaries around her, and she felt her face turning red, improbable as that was. She didn't even need to look at the target to see that what the captain had said was true.

_I hate you. _So _much._

_I'll show _you_. Arrogant twit._

"Yes, Captain Bernadette," she said smoothly, tossing the gun back to him, hiding a grin as he nearly muffed catching it. "I did. Sometimes, it's the only option if you wish to be truly merciful." She turned to look at the rest of them, including the ones who were trooping out of the maze to see what all the fuss was about, now ignoring Bernadette utterly. "You lot may think this is only a game, perhaps, a game where you get paid richly for playing, and perhaps not. Perhaps I'm only making assumptions. But you've _got_ to understand what Sir Hellsing will be expecting you to go up against. These _aren't_ human beings you'll be fighting, though God knows humans are bad enough on their own. These are things that'll tear you apart without remorse, and what's more they'll be sadistic enough to enjoy it. If you're stupid enough to let them, they'll gut you and drink your blood, probably while you're still alive." She had their attention now; all the shots had ceased as all the men stared at her. "And that's not even the worst of it. It's true that I blew up the hostages, but I've had to do worse, believe me. You're soldiers; you've only fought other soldiers. But now you're going to have to shoot things that were once civilians, in the head or the heart. Whenever these vampires drink blood, their victims will become ghouls; even little children, even _babies. _In real life, those hostages would probably have been mindless, shuffling zombies by now. Finishing them off would be a mercy. This is _not_ a game, gentlemen. This is real. So _stop_ arsing about, and for pity's sake stop showing off, otherwise you'll be caught and drained by the enemy, and then we'll have to shoot _you _in the heart or head, regardless of our feelings about you."

"And if we _don't_ stop arsing about, do you drain us anyway?"

Some dark, dripping, raging part of her mind took over very quickly indeed, as she turned around, reached forward, grabbed hold of Captain Bernadette and hoisted him up with one hand, his grin turning into a gasp of shock, as if he were nothing more than a blood bag. Which he was: a great big blood bag, just _waiting_ for her teeth to puncture and her mouth to suck, to suck all that gorgeous, sweet smelling, sweet tasting blood…

_No. I'm stronger than that._

She shook off the red mist that had begun to creep into the corners of her vision, as well as the mysterious dampness that had begun to grow there as well, and instead contented herself by saying, as calmly as she could, "No, you don't. Luckily for you lot, I only drink packaged blood. Colleagues are strictly off limits, even if I _am_ extremely pissed off with them." She placed the suddenly pale, sweating man gently back on the ground, and then standing up on her toes to whisper in his ear. "That's by choice, by the way, not just because of duty. However, Sir Hellsing does allow some sway to the more _unusual_ members of her forces. Who knows? Maybe she'll look the other way and allow me to kick your teeth in if you ever so much as _dare _suggest that I'd turn on my comrades."

She stood back, and saluted. "I'll leave you to it, then. Gentlemen. _Captain._"

Seras took the long way back to the mansion, working off her anger and frustration. _That jerk. That **creep**. How dare he? Just because I'm a vampire, he thinks I'd drain them all without a whim…_

Mind you, she hadn't exactly decreased that fear. More likely _increased_ it. Nothing increased an atmosphere of danger like holding someone off the ground with one hand without any apparent effort, and then whispering threats in their ear.

_That isn't like me at all. It must be Master…Alucard's blood again. _She sighed. It was going to take a lot of work to improve this awkward situation. It wasn't as if she was out to scare the new troops into cooperating. She wanted to get on with them; really she did, despite the thoughts she couldn't help having at the time. She was even willing to attempt to be cordial with the Captain, if only he'd get his mind out of the gutter and off the 'blood-sucking fiend of the night' business. This, again, was going to take a lot of work, if she was any judge of character.

"Officer Victoria?"

Looking up, she saw with alarm that she had almost walked into Sir Hellsing, standing in the French doors that served as the main entrance from the mansion to the grounds that sprawled out behind the main house, cigar in hand and one platinum eye brow raised. Quickly she drew herself up to attention. "Good afternoon, Sir Hellsing!"

"And good afternoon to you too, Victoria." The knight raised her cigar to her lips, sucked in, and made a face. "Disgusting, these things. Well, and how are the new employees doing at their target practice?"

Seras was rather surprised to be asked this, but considering she was probably the closest thing Sir Integral had left to a senior officer, it was perhaps not so astonishing. "They're certainly enthusiastic, sir, but I'm worried that they won't really take it seriously until a few of them get knocked off in combat." She paused, and then decided to voice her primal concern. "Besides, I think they're all worried that I'll suddenly go berserk and tear their throats out."

The other eyebrow was raised. "Really? And _whatever_ gave them that idea, Officer?"

She made her face as deadpan as she could, though at the same time she knew that her boss never missed a trick. "Couldn't say, sir."

"I'm sure you couldn't. Well, you will be pleased to know that your hands wills be washed of them for a while at least. Events have come into play, very swiftly, and I will need both you and Alucard to escort a certain member of the Vatican across the Irish sea to the Emerald Isle. Walter will take over their training, at least for the moment. Is there something wrong, Victoria? You look a little flustered."

"I…_both_ of us, sir?" she managed to get out, after trying to make her tongue work for a few troublesome moments where it had frozen up in surprise. "But _why?_ Won't you need at least one of us to stay here, in case more Freaks turn up?"

"No, Officer, I won't, for three very good reasons. Number one, Freak activity is practically non-existent for now at least; whoever or whatever was instigating the attacks seemed to have cooled their offensive, for now at least, allowing us some time to train the new troops and to concentrate on this pressing matter." Sir Integral dropped the cigar and trod on it to put it out, never taking her eyes off her. "Number two, you will come to see in time. And number three…well, number three is that you and Alucard are really the only ones who can handle this particular Vatican representative with any efficiency, should things go wrong."

She had a _very_ bad feeling about this. "Forgive me for making assumptions, Sir Hellsing, but this Vatican representative…it wouldn't happen to be _Anderson_, would it?"

"Correct, Victoria. So I am certain you can see why he would need a special escort. Of course, this is a strictly _diplomatic _mission, but we both know how easily such missions can escalate into blood baths." The taller woman leaned forward. "I have every confidence in your being able to handle the situation, Victoria, so don't let me down."

This was probably as close as Sir Hellsing would come to a compliment, so Seras could not help but feel flattered. "I'll do my best, sir."

"Good." Sir Integral striaghened slightly, but still kept her eyes trained on her face, which she was less than comfortable with – even if she was on better terms with her employer now, those ice blue eyes still chilled her. "One more question, Officer Victoria – what do you think of Captain Bernadette?"

_Is this a trick question?_ Seras decided to tread carefully. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Permission granted."

"Personally, I believe he is certainly a hard-working, well-experienced, well trained officer, with good control of his men and a quick understanding. However, he's also brash, rude, filthy-minded, filthy-tongued, stubborn, perverse and a complete and utter wanker, sir," she reeled off, resisting the urge to tick the traits off on her fingers.

"Dear me," Sir Integral said lightly. "I see he had made less than a good impression on you, officer. Well, you will be not be as pleased to know as I had hoped that he'll be accompanying you to Ireland."

It was all that Seras could do not to scream out _"WHAT!?"_ at the top of her undead lungs. All she could do was gape wordlessly at her boss, who was now smiling her thin, 'now-someone's-going-to-die' smile.

"I believe it really is for the best, Victoria. Showing the leader of our new troops the ropes of our duty is of extreme importance, since it not only helps to impress the aforesaid duty upon his comrades as well, but while they are sperated they will be without a leader and therefore more willing to imprint upon and listen to the temporary leader we will provide for them, in the shape of Walter. Rather like taking away the leader of a troop of ants, I find. Paladin Anderson's plane leaves at ten o'clock tomorrow, Officer Victoria, so I recommend that you find some warm clothes – I hear tell that Ireland can be quite cold at this time of year. The wind finds its way in like icy fingers. Best wrap up well, in my mind. Good afternoon, Officer Victoria."

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Seras might be acting a bit OOC, but _you_ try to be nice to or about a bloke who repeatedly sexually harasses you, if only with his eyes, and then makes accusations that really hurt your feelings as well as your morals. Not so easy, is it?**

**Dearg-due: Located in Ireland. A Celtic legend says that a famous female called Dearg-due (Red blood sucker) is buried near Strongbow's Tree in Waterford. In Scotland the vampire legend was called baobhan sith, and lurked in the mountains. She purportedly arises once a year from her grave to seduce men into her embrace and drains them dry of blood. The way to prevent the undead from arising, according to Irish legend, is to build a cairn of stones over its grave.**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	5. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of it.**

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Chapter Four

The early morning dew was glistening on the grass and the branches, as John made his way down the worn track towards the river, on his customary pre-breakfast walk.

It was the fifth day since he had arrived at the cottage he was renting from the local farmer, and he was enjoying all the delights that County Kerry had to offer. He had done a lot of cycling, both into Killarney and into other towns, even taking renting a car one day to reach the sea. He had taken a look at the nearby golf course, more as a favour to a golf-enthusiast friend than because he played it himself. The family he was staying with were friendly and welcoming, though he could do without the more enthusiastic greetings of the dogs on the days when it had rained and the ground was muddy. And today he was planning something special, and he had been preparing for it all of yesterday; he would attempt to cycle around the Ring of Kerry. He probably wouldn't make it all the way around, but he'd get a good way, if he set off early enough. He'd organised his breakfast at seven o'clock, and as soon as he'd had his walk, he'd go back to the rented cottage, eat and set off. It was as simple as that.

But for now, he stood and gazed at the river, which flowed wildly at the bottom of the land that the farmer owned. It was a lovely sight, especially when the mist was hanging over it in the early morning and the sunlight sparkled on its gurgling waters, but he had been warned the very first day he had arrived there not to go into the deluge, not even to cool his feet; not that he'd be able to, for there were no sandbanks here as there were further up the river. According to the locals several people had drowned in it over the years, unsurprisingly, and they had no desire to add their guest to the multitude.

They needn't have worried. John preferred to leave going into rivers to those who liked fishing or swimming, neither of which he was particularly fond of.

A noise to his right made him turn sharply around, thinking one of the dogs might have followed him down from the farm, as they had done before. But to his surprise he saw that his new companion was a horse; a gorgeous milk-white creature, strong and lithe but gentle looking, with a mane and tail so long they both brushed the ground, cropping the grass only a few feet away from him and standing practically next to the river.

John wasn't that fond of horses either, or of riding them, preferring his bicycle to mounting any of the steeds they kept here at the farm for visiting tourists; but even he couldn't fail to admire this beautiful animal. Naturally he stepped forward to pet it, and perhaps to lead it away from its perilous position near the raging torrent.

Two steps forward, he thought absently: _Does Mr. O'Donohue let the horses loose this early in the day?_

Another step forward, he thought: _Would he let one of his horses' manes grow so long, though? If they're meant to be ridden?_

Three more steps forward, he thought again, and this time a little more urgently, _Does the farm actually _have _a white horse?_

But there was no more time for mental debating, for at that moment his hand came to rest upon the horse's neck, feeling the curiously damp strands under his fingers, as if it had gone for an early morning swim. As he did so the animal abruptly raised its head from the ground, to look right at him, and its lips parted in a snarl.

_This is no horse, _he thought dully, with effort, as his mind began to shriek. _Those eyes…and those teeth…_

He could only gape in astonishment and horror until the creature bit down on his still outstretched wrist, through flesh and through bone, and then he could only scream uselessly as it dragged him down into the fast flowing river, to drown in a nightmare of crimson bubbles and glowing yellow eyes and ripping, tearing fangs.

_

* * *

Is there something wrong, Integra? Anything you find out of place about my appearance? _

"Apart from the fact that I consider your tie to be a crime against fashion in the highest degree," Integra muttered under her breath, "not much, servant. I must congratulate you on your effort to look human, even if it didn't quite succeed."

_My efforts are nothing compared to your own, _Master.

She despised the way he murmured that last word. Even if her servant's physical eyes were fixed upon the people around her, she knew he was ogling her with his hidden ones, partly to irritate her, partly to take advantage of the situation. Why had she picked out this blasted cream jumper? Certainly it hid the still present bandages on her neck, but she hadn't known it would cling quite so much, or outline so much either. She had to keep resisting the urge to cross her arms, or rather her arm, over her chest; she didn't want to show weakness in front of her servant, even if it meant the less than warm temperature in the airport would make the jumper outline more than her brassiere.

She desperately missed her suit, but wearing that was out of the question, even though Walter had done an excellent job of making sure that her image had not been leaked to the press during the past few weeks. There was always the slim but still possible chance that some newspaper had gotten hold of a reference of her face and was even now on the lookout for a woman dressed in a man's suit and with long flowing white blonde hair; let alone swiftly formed groups of vengeance seeking Freaks or their supporters who would not be above shooting her in broad daylight. So if she wanted to do such a hare-brained and reckless thing as confront an Iscariot agent in the middle of a crowded airport with minimum backup, for example, it was far safer to shed her Armani suits in favour of a more normal, feminine outfit; to abandon her normal, sensible glasses in favour of a sleeker, more stylish pair, and bundle up her distinctive ash blonde hair inside something resembling a cross between a base-ball cap and a beret – Integra was not entirely sure which.

The jeans, practically brand new and borrowed from Seras, were rubbing across her thighs in a _most_ uncomfortable manner. The wool of the jumper made her arms itch, and she missed the familiar warmth of her hair on the back of her neck. And, worst of all, she was arm in arm with a vampire who was sporting a tan ankle-length coat teamed with a pinstripe suit and a tie with staring red eyes on it, among other things. She hated days like these with the heat of a thousand suns.

_You look incredibly seductive, Master, _Alucard whispered, still innocently looking at passers-by as they walked on, practically in tandem. He was joking, of course, in the cruellest possible manner…she hoped. It was bad enough that her servant still kept up his agonising offer, something she hardly dared even think of with him so close, without him lusting after her physically as well.

A smile stretching upon his lips told her that he had caught that last thought, and she was determined not to look like a fool, even though she might feel like one.

"What I look like, Alucard," she replied coolly, resisting the urge to pull her arm from his, "is an anorexic poet."

_Oh, _anything _but anorexic, Master!_

It galled Integra in the extreme to have to parade herself around in front of Alucard in this get-up, let alone practically hang on his arm to aid the deception, but there was no help for it. At least _she_ only had to put up with her vampire's teasing. Considering that if the Draculina chose she could easily break his head in a heartbeat, it was surprising that Bernadette was being far more familiar around Seras than was really necessary, even if they were under the pretence of being a couple. Then again, the Captain was probably taking advantage of the fact that they were trying _not_ to draw attention to themselves, and that Seras would not dare unleash even one fraction of her Undead strength against him, or at least not in public. For now, she herself would just have to put up with Alucard's arm that was perhaps linked just a little too tightly with her own, and pulled her just a little too closely against his disturbingly cool, solid body.

_A perfect disguise, _Alucard whispered, guessing so well what she was thinking. _No one would ever take them for anything other than an ordinary, romantic holidaying couple. Or us, for that matter. Is it not touching, Master?_

Lord, but she wanted a cigar.

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* * *

I don't care if we are meant to be under cover,_ Seras thought savagely._ If he tries to feel me up again, I'm going to break his nose. I swear I will!_ areSeras thought savagely. 

But all she did was to pull the captain's arm away from her shoulders _again_, for the fourth time, and heft her shoulder bag threateningly at him. The only reaction it got was not the one she was hoping for; Bernadette's grin widened, if that were possible, and he winked in what was perhaps a _most_ lewd fashion at her – though, since he only had the one eye, it was hard to tell.

"Come on, mignonette," he whispered. "At least try to play along. I'm taking this seriously, even if _you_ aren't."

"Somehow, I doubt your trying to grope my backside signifies taking the situation seriously," she hissed back. "Kindly keep your hands to _yourself_, Captain."

"But this is so much more fun!"

Curse him, why did his voice have to sound so good? And why did he still have to _smell_ so good? Seras felt the heat rising again in her cheeks as her colleague and make-believe companion shot her a cheeky grin, and hurriedly turned her face away. _Why the _hell_ am I blushing? I'm a vampire, for heavens' sake, my blood shouldn't be moving to start with!_ _And if I have to do it, why of all people does it have to be caused by _this _pervert?_

She could feel Alucard's humour inside her head, as well as his contentment with his own situation compared to hers. She could tell, without having to search them out in the crowds and potentially ruining the deception, that Sir Integra was perched on her former master's arm, practically tucked against his chest. Through her still present connection to Alucard she had a weak awareness of Integra's emotions, and it made her smile treacherously to know that her boss was even more annoyed than she herself was at her servant's close contact, though she had considerably more self control.

Then again, it was not as if Alucard were trying to grope her…yet…

_I think you've done enough examining of her mind, little Seras. Fly back to your own head, before you lose it._

She squeaked mentally, and hurriedly retreated from Alucard's brooding influence, blinking as she concentrated again on her own body. Just because she had gained some independence didn't mean Alucard was above punishing her for trespassing; and he considered Integra's mind to be his own private domain and playground.

But of course, Sir Integral would never condone him slicing off her head in public, even if he actually had felt in the mood to do it. It unnerved her to know that, even though he had made her into his sireling, and magnanimously offered her his blood more than once to free her, her sire would lop her head off at once if his own, still present master wished it. She was extremely glad she was getting along much better with Sir Integra than before.

_What a pair they make, _she thought, though she was very careful to keep that thought to herself. She longed for the days when she knew for a fact that she could be alone in her own head.

She looked around instead, still keeping her eyes fixedly away from Bernadette and instead focusing on the civilians around them. She wanted to be prepared for when they finally met the lunatic she'd have to be travelling with for the next few days, which certainly was not helping her nerves.

And suddenly there he was, Paladin Alexander Anderson, only a little way away, sitting quietly on a typical plastic airport seat; his coat slung over his legs and his head bent keenly over the bible clasped in his large, seemingly clumsy hands. She saw, as her senses went into alert, that sitting down disguised the regenerator's abnormal height somewhat, making him look practically like an ordinary Catholic priest, save for the rather vicious scar on his cheek. All the same, Seras's nose felt as if it had suddenly been set on fire by his alarming, hostile, _unnatural_ scent. The fact that he didn't look as if he'd hurt a fly didn't deceive her at all, even if she hadn't already experienced at first hand his psychotic tendencies. Spiders didn't look as if they'd hurt flies either, right up to the point where they suddenly did.

"Hey, Victoria," Bernadette whispered at her side, with a smirk she could easily see out of the corner of her eye, "you're tellin' me you're actually _scared_ of this guy?"

Seras snorted. _Insufferable prat, _she thought, even as she replied softly, "Spoken like someone who didn't get their throat skewered by a bayonet on the first encounter."

Bernadette's grin rapidly disappeared. She was _good _at making him stop smiling quickly. "What? He actually-"

"Oh yes. More than once. I've still got the scar, as a matter of fact; would you like to see?" she piped sweetly.

"Perhaps some other time, Victoria," came a smooth undertone from her left. "For now, let us greet your travelling companion."

With that she knew that Sir Integra had freed herself from Alucard's iron-like arm, and – there! She could suddenly see her striding through the crowds of people, all her borrowed garments unable to disguise her normal parade ground march. On anyone else such a posture might be ridiculous; on the platinum haired woman approaching the priest it somehow seemed so natural.

Alucard followed at a more leisurely walk, his signature ankle length coat brushing the ground, though almost disturbingly bland in colour, and – _What _is_ he wearing around his neck? _Seras had not had a chance to see how her superiors had attired themselves, seeing as they had left the mansion at different times, and she goggled at the hideous accessory her former master had seen fit to adorn himself with.

Bernadette whistled beside her. "Hundreds of years old, and still no fashion sense in all that time."

"I wouldn't let him hear you say that, if I were you. He doesn't take criticism well from anyone but Sir Hellsing."

"Worried about me, mignonette? I am touched! Hopefully in more places than one, if this relationship develops into something more…"

Seras rolled her eyes, and tried desperately to stop any more blood rushing to her cheeks – though it seemed that all the blood still in her body was already there. "You know, on second thoughts, you deserve whatever comes to you."

_

* * *

Right. Here we go. _

Anderson seemed to already be aware of her presence, and looked up calmly at her as she closed the final few feet between them, closing his bible but keeping his place with his fingers.

"Anderson," she said softly, nodding at him.

He inclined his head in return. "Sir Hellsing."

"Not today, Anderson. For the moment anyway, I am anonymous."

The priest chuckled odiously, as he closed the bible properly. "Afraid to be cut down in the height of your sin and your folly, then, lady? You should go to confession more."

She bristled at this obscure insult, but at least it showed that he was in a good mood if he was willing to make jokes. He wouldn't be for long, but it would make this easier for the moment.

"I presume you know why we are here."

"Aye," Anderson said, shifting in his seat. "To make sure that I actually get on the plane for Cork, rather than to go on another little trip around this beautiful country." He bared his teeth in a grin, and it was more than a little disturbing to see just how much like Alucard he looked.

Speaking of Alucard, she felt her servant's presence approaching more swiftly, and Anderson's eyes suddenly narrowed as he focused for the first time on something other than her. He abruptly stood up, forcing her to crane her neck to accommodate his great height. "What is _that _creature doing here?" he hissed – though thankfully still in an undertone.

"Pleased to see you too, Judas priest," Alucard retorted calmly as he came to a halt behind her, so close that she could feel the chill emanating off his body, and the hostility emanating from his mind, though hidden by his jovial air. "I see your arms grew back. Would it work if I pulled your head off, do you think?"

_Time to put a stop to this, _she thought, even as she spoke out. "Let's be nice children, shall we? If you're going to play together, you must learn to tolerate each other. And if that is not possible, at least try to put up with each other."

Anderson's eyes had broken off the staring match he must have been having with Alucard, to glare at her. "What _is_ this, Hellsing?"

"Manners, Anderson," Integra said calmly, wishing now more than ever for that cigar. "I suppose Maxwell forgot to tell you, for some reason I cannot _possibly _fathom – this meeting isn't just to see you off safely. Alucard and Seras Victoria will be accompanying you to Ireland, to make sure you fulfil your mission and nothing more."

"The Draculina? _She's _here too?" Anderson was now looking murderous, which was less than a good sign. Integra quickly ploughed on.

"Yes, she is here too. And I might as well tell you this now, Anderson; my servants have specific orders. If you try to escape them, or attack them, they _will_ be allowed to react accordingly in order to defend themselves, as well as my interests. And if you _do _attack them, by the by, it will be tantamount to a breach of treaty between England and the Vatican. You might as well learn to get along with your travelling companions, because they will be with you for a long time."

"You dare presume to restrict me in the Lord's work?"

She looked coldly up at him, hoping that only her ice blue eyes betrayed her intense dislike of the priest. "Considering that you have spent the last few months in this country illegally by deceiving the authorities, and without official authorization, I would say I am being quite lenient. If I wanted to, Anderson," and with this she took a step forward, ignoring Alucard's bridle of aggression concerning her safety, "I could rob you and your superior of any influence in the Vatican. The Iscariot organization would lose what little honour, support and funding it had, if any, if it was found out that Maxwell was letting an assassin roam around my country free and without any contract, ready and waiting to be used, as you are now. I may be a heretic to you Catholics, but I am a heretic with no little influence of my own, whatever your precious Maxwell thinks."

Anderson snarled, almost like a dog, but she only laughed quietly, belying the tension she could feel in her mind twixt her and Alucard. He was preparing to attack, and she couldn't have that, not here, not now. "Oh, yes, _do_ get out your bayonets and start slashing at me with them, Father Anderson, in the middle of this crowded airport with surveillance cameras all around. I could use the video as evidence to bolster my case against your organization; and I assure that I _would _still be standing on my own two feet when I take you to the cleaners."

There was silence, as her dog growled silently at Iscariot's dog; and she was pleased to note that it was Anderson who looked away first. "Very well, Hellsing."

"Good. I'm glad that we can see eye to eye." She sniggered silently at her own private joke, since Anderson stood at least two heads taller than her – and she _still_ had him whipped! "If you can do without me in the nursery, boys, I must speak with Victoria before you all leave. Travel well, Anderson."

He inclined his head again, though far less jovially than he had done before.

"Keep an eye on him at all times, Alucard, and keep in contact with Seras," she added softly, for her servant's benefit. "Any sign of him becoming…uppity, and you know what to do. Just try not to create too much of an international incident, will you?"

"I will do my best, Master."Alucard slid his familiar sun glasses onto his nose, and shot her a toothy grin. _Wish me well, Integra?_

Despite her self-control concerning her servant, she found herself smiling. "If you really wish, Alucard. How about 'come freely, go safely, and leave some of the happiness you bring?'"

She regretted her quotation the next moment, however, as Alucard's grin widened. "I believe that I'll hold you to that, Integra." She barely had time to wonder why he had spoken out loud, in such a manner, before two familiar, solid barriers were circling around her and she was being lifted off her feet and into the air, to be pressed against her servant's cool body, her face almost buried in his shoulder and her own arms thrown around his neck for support.

"You had better," she growled into his hair, as soon as she overcame her shock and rage, "have good reasons for this, servant."

_Aiding the deception, Integra, _he shot back glibly, as he squeezed her closing, crushing her breasts high against his chest. _Do not lovers bid each other farewell in such a manner?_

"We aren't lovers, though," she pointed out desperately. The seals, why weren't the seals _doing_ something? His mouth was getting uncomfortably close to her neck; she had to stop herself from kicking him in an undignified fashion, on the knee or further up. "Anyway, all the people around you see what you want them to see, do they not? So why do you insist on this degrading spectacle?"

_Just because I can weave illusions does not mean I cannot enjoy the physical world as well, Integra. _To her intense relief he finally loosened his grip and set her down again; she pulled harshly away at once from his embrace, straightening her glasses and her jumper. Looking over at Anderson she could see a sneer adorning his face, as he no doubt judged both of them; but she saw no need to explain herself to the Catholic.

"Until we meet again, then. Anderson. Alucard."

She left the two of them glaring at each other, though she was confident that Alucard would obey her and Anderson wasn't insane enough to start a fight yet – or at least not here. Her threat of the cameras had probably spooked him.

Instead, she made her way towards Seras and Captain Bernadette, who, she was faintly amused to note, had slid an arm around Seras's shoulders yet again. The young vampire appeared to have given up the struggle, and was now standing with the afore-mentioned shoulders hunched, trying to give Bernadette as little flesh to hug as possible.

"At ease, Bernadette," she purred, walking up to them. As he hastily removed his arm, to Seras's obvious relief, she went on, "I take it you know what your instructions are?"

"Yes," Seras said, nodding – at least _she'd_ remembered not to use her honorific title to avoid unwanted attention. "I call you, three times a day. Once in the morning, once in the afternoon, once at night; I let you know what's going on, but I also let you know if something's up. If you hear from me and we're in trouble, you'll send backup. If you don't hear from me, we're in trouble and you'll send back up anyway."

"Good." She gave them a rare smile, rather than a grin. "I wish you both the best of luck, then. Oh, and Officer Victoria? I have something for you, for the journey." She felt in her pocket for the little gift she had prepared for Seras. She was usually unsympathetic towards this kind of situation, considering the nature of those who suffered it, but she had to admit that she wanted to spare Seras _some_ discomfort.

Seras, however, didn't seem to realise this, as she stared at the metal box that was handed to her, and quickly read the legend upon the lid that informed someone that contents of the box were boiled sweets.

"_Sweets?_ But, but you _know_ I can't eat-"

"Wait and see, Seras, wait and see." She took delight at the vampire's innocent confusion. It was refreshing after the snide taunts and baiting of her own servant. "Don't open it until you get on the plane, though. Have a good flight, and don't forget to call."

_Until we next meet, Master, _Alucard's voice echoed mockingly in her head as she watched the two walk away towards the gate. _I look forward to it immensely._

"Why?" she whispered, as she turned to walk to the exit of the airport.

_Why, I may well wish to hold you to your words again…_Integra.

* * *

"Well, and what was all that about?" Bernadette asked, once they had settled into their seats. "Why'd she give you those things?" 

"I don't really know," Seras admitted, as she buckled herself in, and pulled the tin out of her pocket again. It hadn't shown up on the metal detector, she'd made sure of that – whatever a vampire wanted to go undetected _stayed _undetected, and she'd wanted to see exactly what was so special about this box and its contents, that smelled rather odd anyway. "It's a kind thought…I think, but I'm sure that she knows I couldn't eat these, even if I wanted to!"

"Maybe you could offer a few to Big Red," Bernadette joked, peering over the seats to where Alucard was sitting six rows in front of them, stiff backed and looking out of the window with vague disinterest, ignoring Anderson who was sitting on the opposite side of the aisle and just as rigidly ignoring him. "He needs sweetening up, if you ask me."

Seras shuddered. "I'd hate to think what he'd say if I started offering him boiled _sweets_, of all things. I'd hate to think what he'd do as well, for that matter."

"Point taken." Bernadette sat back again. "So, why can't you eat them, again?"

"Didn't you pay _any_ attention to Sir Integra? I can't eat or drink anything…except for the obvious, of course." She looked down at the box in her lap. "Mind you, I wish I _could _eat these. They might have helped."

"Why?"

Seras sighed, and stretched her legs, trying to overcome her nerves. Talking to anyone would help a little at this point. "I've never exactly been a big fan of flying, Bernadette. Even before…I embarked on my new career, I was always dicey about going on planes. I always got air-sick, which is bad enough as it is. But now, instead of that…crossing over running water, you know…"

Bernadette nodded soberly. So he _had_ been paying some attention after all. "Well, it could be worse, mignonette. I mean, you could be flying all the way to _Brazil_, or some place like that. Then they'd probably have to nail you up inside your coffin, or something-"

"Ugh, do stop it!" she protested, slapping his arm. The idea had occurred to her, and it was not one she liked. She could cope sleeping in her coffin for a few hours, but after that delayed claustrophobia would almost certainly kick in, and the last place she wanted to be on a plane was in an even more enclosed area than normal. "And stop talking about things like that! Someone might hear you!"

"Eh; _relax, _Seras." Bernadette smiled a lady killer smile; but since she was already dead, to all extents and purposes, she liked to think that it had no effect upon her. "If you're really that nervous, would you like me to hold your hand through the flight?"

Seras felt half inclined to rebuff yet another attempt to project his unwanted closeness upon her – as if sitting crammed next to him in an aeroplane wasn't bad enough – but this was different. He was actually trying to be nice to her for a change, instead of teasing her or winding her up. So she gave a few more moments thought to the issue, before deciding to give him a smile. "Thanks, but I'll be fine."

He heaved a dramatic sigh. "Then if I don't get the comfort of feeling your soft skin upon mine, can I at least have a sweet to sustain _myself_ through the flight?"

She felt her eyebrows raise, but could not resist the smirk that bubbled to her lips and she began to pull the lid off the box. It came off easily; but the contents were not what either of them expected.

"Is that…dirt?" Bernadette said incredulously, leaning over to get a closer look.

"No. No, it's…" Seras stirred the dark, crumbling substance with a finger, and an achingly familiar smell rose to meet her nose. How could she not have recognised it after all this time? How could she not tell? "It's earth."

"_Earth?" _Bernadette repeated incredulously."What the hell is the boss doing giving you a box of earth? _What _is the point of that?"

Ignoring Bernadette's growing protests, Seras held the box to her nose, and sniffed. A wave of emotion followed the scent of the earth, filled with memory and security.

_Earth from my home…_

_Sir Integra thinks of everything._

Carefully, so as not to spill any, she put the lid back on the box, and then bent down and tucked it underneath her seat, to sit snugly against the packaged parachute. At once her apprehension and queasiness died away; even the prospect of journeying with Anderson wasn't quite as bad as it had seemed at first. She felt warm, and as safe as she could upon an aircraft that would soon be surrounded by a wide, vast expanse of water. She felt her eyelids begin to droop.

Bernadette, meanwhile, was still grumbling. "I don't get it. Seras, what did…Seras? Hey! Hey, Seras!"

But Seras Victoria was already happily asleep.

**

* * *

Sorry to Asenath about nicking the idea of an underwater horsey who likes eating people. I wanted to do a merrow, really I did, but they only live in the sea, and anyway they don't eat people. Maybe later on in the story, if I ever get a chance to fit one in. **

**I got the idea of Seras having a box of earth from her home under her seat from Erin Ptah's really wonderful web and fan comic, _And Shine Heaven Now, _with plenty of original, well drawn and very funny story lines. (So far, in addition to placing those who oppose Integral Hellsing in their very own subcircle of Hell, putting Enrico Maxwell and his comrades in a Cathlicon and creating the near unappeasable force that are 'fangirls', she's _also_ managed to cross Hellsing over with _Read or Die, Victorian Romance Emma _and _Princess Tutu_, though not all of them at the same time. Bow ye down and worship, gentiles all!...Why, no, I'm not advertising in the least!) In one storyline Pip takes Seras to Paris for a date, and since they need to cross the channel in a helicopter, Pip did research and the whole earth-under-the-seat-thing. You can tell how much a guy loves you, when he digs up your garden to bring you some earth for you comfort and convenience.**

**And yes, I _was _inevitably thinking of Jack Sparrow in Dead Man's Chest. **_**"I've got a jar of dirt! I've got a jar of dirt! And guess what's inside it!"****

* * *

**_

**Reviews, please!**


	6. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. Not even what comes up later. Tee hee hee.**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

The fates were either being kind to Captain Pip Bernadette, or they had something against him. He wasn't sure which was more likely at the moment, as he walked out into Cork Airport with an angel practically on his arm. He could see that many of the younger male generation were giving his apparent _'amore' _appreciative looks in more ways than they rightly should, and the bolder of them gave him winks or thumbs up as well.

_Ah, if only I were deserving of their praise…_

Pip liked pretty women. He liked them very much indeed, and he wouldn't deny it. He was a man, after all, and a man who knew exactly what he wanted from life. And that was beauty in many forms, and a good deal of it at that; not just the beauty of a face but the silken softness of hair and skin, the swells of sweet curves, the glorious warmth of a body held close, the exhilarating taste of mouth and neck and other places, the sheer joyous pleasure to be found between bed sheets. What could be more natural, or more fitting, for a soldier of fortune, to find his true treasure in the wonders of the flesh?

Of course, there was also the beauty of the mind and the wit, but he didn't get that so much these days. He couldn't remember the last time he had gone with a girl on the merit of her sparkling conversation, actually, but it had probably been some time in his teens, when he had been more innocent and not so accustomed to take his pleasure where he could get it.

And now, here was pleasure practically incarnate, walking (and bouncing slightly, he _could_ help noticing) right next to him, in the form of Officer Seras Victoria, perhaps one of the most desirable little parcels he had ever had the good fortune to come across – but, ironically enough, one parcel that seemed extremely determined to stay well and firmly wrapped, despite the fact that, as a vampire, she was _supposed_ to be sex on legs. Truly, the irony was astounding.

Pip allowed himself a tiny sigh, hoping she wouldn't notice, as she turned her head in that enchanting way she did so well, perhaps without even noting, and tufts of strawberry blonde hair moved across her shoulders, shining in the sunlight that she shifted away from.

_Mon dieu, but she's beautiful. _

Ever since he'd first met her, he had felt attraction of a kind he rarely experienced any more, for any female. She was unlike any of the women he'd ever been with before, utterly unlike any of them. That figure, oh, that _figure_. Those lovely, deep blue eyes; that clear pale skin; that hair…

Of course, the fangs set her apart a little as well, along with the whole 'being undead' thing. _That _had been a pause for thought and no mistake. But really, when he mused on it, he had done much worse than a vampire, particularly such a little _belle_ as this one. At least Seras was definitely female, and while not exactly alive she certainly wasn't dead by any means. And if she _was, _then necrophilia wasn't so bad after all.

In fact, the main problem in this case was that she was such a _prude. _Not that that wasn't a turn on in itself, but this; _this_ was a crime against nature! A woolly jumper all the way up to her neck, not even giving a glimpse of cleavage or of waist! Granted they'd arrived in a fairly cold country, plus, as a vampire, showing off skin in the daytime wasn't exactly the smartest thing for her to do…but still, it was the principle of the thing! Pip knew that clothes definitely didn't suit this little lady. Surely other men knew it as well, and had thought about ways to remedy the dire situation.

But he couldn't help feeling a stab of pity for the girl, as she tucked a lock of hair behind her shell-like ear. With her beauty, and her sweetness and the kindness that had shone through even her near permanent annoyance when around him, she should have been fighting off admirers, she should have had her pick of the best men around her to be her _beau. _But instead, she was stuck in a gloomy old mansion with a potentially gender confused lady-knight for a boss, an old and mysteriously calm butler, a bunch of self-acknowledged perverts who preferred the ladies of the night to nice girls, and the big bad red vampire who had sired her living in the cellar. He wasn't even going to _begin _to explore the creepiness of _that_ situation…

So, she needed someone to perk her up, make her appreciate life a bit more – or 'un-life', or whatever. He could think of just the man to do the generous deed. Ordinarily he might have been a little worried, seeing as they'd be traveling with two other blokes to take her attention away continuously; but he'd seen how that Alucard guy had looked at the boss in the airport, let alone watched and felt the urge to make notes when he'd practically felt her up. He wouldn't be trying anything with his 'daughter' any time soon. As for the priest…even Pip was now ready to agree that Anderson was more likely to kill Seras than so much as touch her. Not that he'd try anything, anyway. He hoped.

So, the field was clear. He couldn't wait to really go to town on Seras's nerves. He couldn't help it. She was just so _adorable_ when she was confused! And she was only more adorable when she got angry.

They'd gotten into the arrival lounge by this point, and – yes, there was old Alucard and the priest striding right past them, the former wearing a grin and the latter a sneer, both carrying more than a touch of mania that made even unwitting bystanders shy away.

"It's odd seeing those two together like this," Seras muttered beside him, clutching her shoulder bag with more than annoyance, actually nervous.

"Odd, why?" he prompted, fighting the urge to slow down and let them walk out the airport without them. _Dieu, _it looked like those two might actually snap, they were so determined not to look at each other.

"Odd considering that the last time they met, they tried to kill each other. Repeatedly." Seras allowed a pretty smile to curl her lips, but there was no humor in it.

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"I wasn't intending for it to do so." Seras hoisted her bag further up her shoulder. "The sooner you understand that those two would like nothing better than to rip out the other's throat with their teeth, the better. Although I don't know if they'd make it that quick, now that I think about it."

"Why? Would they, I don't know, rip something else off first, perhaps?" he tried to joke, though this conversation was going in a direction he didn't particularly like the look of at all.

"I'm not sure." He'd got the feeling that she was rambling slightly, now. It was too much to hope for that his astonishing good looks were finally making an impression. "They obviously hate each other's guts. But Alucard…he's been around for a long time. A very long time indeed. Anderson I'm not so sure about, but Walter says he's probably been alive at least since before World War Two. Don't look so surprised, he's a Regenerator after all. All the things the both of them have seen…and disposed of," she added in a lower tone still. "It's pretty obvious they're both bored with the lack of any interesting or worthwhile enemy. And I think an adversary who stands up again even after you shoot them multiple times in the head can be counted as worthy."

"Very astute, Police Girl," came the big vamp's voice from right behind him. _Christ, he enjoys doing that, doesn't he? _He forced himself to look around slowly, to come face to face not with an evilly white smile (since the vampire was a hell of a lot taller than him) but with that horrible tie. At this point in time, he didn't know which was worse.

"Geez, give me cardiac arrest, why don't you?" he muttered under his breath, stepping backwards hurriedly, and stepped back even further when the grin widened even further, if that was physically possible.

"Would you _like_ me to, mercenary?"

_What? _He gaped at the horrid creature for a few seconds, before trying to gather what was left of his composure. "Why, no, thank you, mate; I'd rather you _didn't_."

"You're quite sure? I could do it very easily, you know." He didn't like that look on Alucard's face one bit. The reassurance that had been made by Sir Hellsing when he'd first signed the actual contract - that the vampires would refrain from snacking on fellow employees - suddenly seemed not so reassuring when faced with an especially big and hungry looking bloodsucker.

"Alucard, that's _enough!_" Seras stepped quickly between them, and despite the situation he was in it was still quite funny to see her glaring up at her significantly taller sire, her arms akimbo, rather like a fluffy kitten squaring up to a rabid dog. "You know perfectly well that Pip was being sarcastic, so quit scaring him!"

Alucard simply smirked, and after Seras glared at him for a short while that Pip could have cut with that metaphorical knife, the older vampire chuckled softly and turned away, smiling insolently instead at the priest who stood a few metres away, distaste obvious on his face as he glared back.

"What makes you think that I was scared, mignonette?" he asked, more for something to say than anything else, as he quickly disguised a sigh of relief.

"Alucard said just now that he could smell your anxiety wafting off you. Mentally, of course. He was quite rude about it, actually." Seras pulled her jumper down slightly, sadly obscuring any sight of her taught waist from view. "And I told him that his job was to scare our enemies, not our comrades, and then he asked me if I was soft on you." She opened her bag, apparently to check something inside it.

"And…what did you say?" he prompted, after a few moments of silence. Seras shot him a none too pleasant smile, reminiscent of the weirdo.

"I said of course not. Scaring you is _my _job."

He was still trying to work out whether that was a _good _thing when Big Red turned back. "The priest is already aware of this, but I suppose that I should tell you as well. Master's orders are that I won't accompany you, at least not for this part of the journey."

_Thank goodness for that. _Seras, however, did not look nearly as pleased as he felt at this newsflash; on the contrary, her face lost what little colour it had. _"What? _You mean we have to tag around with that…that psycho? Why didn't Sir Integra tell _us _about this?"

Alucard's sunglasses glinted as he grinned in horrid amusement. "Orders are orders, Police Girl. You should be able to handle whatever he throws at you, or at least dodge it with ease. If you need really help, I will know it, so don't even think about summoning me for any petty reason." And, just like that, the big vamp was gone, like a puff of vanishing smoke from a cigarette.

"Charming bugger, isn't he?" he muttered. Damn, but he was never going to get used to him doing that.

"He is that." Seras was now looking rather glum, and he could see why. That overgrown priest was giving them none too friendly looks, looks that made him profoundly sorry they'd be traveling together for the next few days.

"Well, come on, mignonette – we'd better go and hire a car, unless you want to hitch-hike all the way to wherever Tall, Blonde and Scary is headed."

* * *

In the end, it was Bernadette who signed for the car and the right to drive it, despite having only one eye and having to attest that it was in full working order. Partly it was because he was probably the only one who would need insurance if by some grave mischance they did happen to crash, but mostly it was because - as it turned out after some embarrassing revelations - he was also the only one of the trio who was actually legally and physically able to drive whatever vehicle they'd end up with. Seras, though it had been extremely humiliating for her to admit it, had yet to pass her practical driving test when she was human, and couldn't very well take one now that she was officially classed as 'dead'; and it appeared that driving had not been high on Anderson's list of priorities in the last few years, let alone the fact that the priest was far too tall to fit into the driving seat of even the largest car. As it was, he had had to hunch himself up across the backseat of a fairly big jeep, which appeared to be the largest vehicle the airport had for rent.

It would have been funny seeing him squashed up in the back like that, looking like a freakishly over grown sulky child _and_ extremely uncomfortable at the same time, if Seras hadn't been slightly afraid that the priest would impale her neck from behind with a bayonet again if she so much as sniggered. While she suspected it wouldn't do her as much harm as it had the last time, considering how much she'd grown in power since that night when she'd first met him, it would most definitely still hurt.

She contented herself with looking out of the passenger window instead, as Bernadette steered them skillfully out of Cork Airport. Ireland really was very green, much more verdant than England. It was…nice. Pleasant. It was rare that she went out driving in the day time now, and even rarer that she went driving into the country. The grass was so green, even on a cloudy day…

"I still cannot believe that you don't know how to drive, mignonette."

_Drat him. **Drat** him. _She scowled at Bernadette, resisting the urge to smack him around the head – he was the one driving, after all, on a fairly busy road, and it wouldn't do at all to need that insurance right at the offset.

"I _know _how to drive, Bernadette. That's _not_ the problem. The _problem_ is that I don't have any legal authorization to do so; or at least no authorization that's valid here. If I got pulled over by the police or whatever they have over here, they wouldn't be too impressed if I told them I don't have a license because most of my government thinks I'm dead."

There was a snort, whether of amusement or scorn even her keen senses couldn't tell, from the back seat, though Anderson apparently wouldn't sully himself by looking at her in the mirror. "Most of your government would be right in thinking that, Draculina, though they would be right in little else."

"Well, thank you, Father Anderson, that is _very_ good to know," she shot back at once. "It would be a funny old world if the dead actually _stayed_ dead for a change, wouldn't it?"

It wasn't a particularly good joke, she knew, or even good at all. She didn't even now why she'd said it, and she could tell it had done nothing to break the ice as she saw the priest glaring at her now.

"It would be a far more holy and righteous world at that, _vampire_."

_Oh, _thanks._ Rub in the fact that you believe I don't have a reason to exist in front of my colleague, why don't you? _Then again, what exactly had she been expecting? Overtures of everlasting friendship? Hardly. Seras already had a retort on the tip of her tongue, and a biting one at that, but the thought of bayonets and wild stabbing kept her in check. She might stand up to one of Anderson's rages – _perhaps_ – but she doubted if the jeep or its driver would.

_Wait – am I actually being _concerned _about Bernadette?_

She looked over at him again. Thankfully his eye patch was on her side, so he couldn't catch her looking; or so she thought until he turned quickly and smirked at her. She rapidly looked back at the view in front of them, so rapidly she twisted her neck painfully.

"How about having the radio on?" she blurted out, desperately trying to think of a way to relieve the tension before they all went mad and started taking it out on each other. They really didn't need to start fighting this early on in the mission.

"You don't need the radio, _mignonette_ – not when you have _me _to sing for you!"

_I may be a vampire, Bernadette, but that doesn't mean that I'm stupid by any means._

"That's what I'm afraid of," she retorted crisply, as she prepared to turn the radio on regardless. "Any song _you_ know is probably bound to be perverse."

His large, warm hand stopped hers as she reached for the on button. "Don't make assumptions, girly! I know many songs that are, how do you put it, _clean._"

"Really? Name one," she shot back, pulling her hand away from his quickly. She would be extremely surprised if such was really the case.

But instead of naming one, Bernadette actually burst into song almost at once, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the tune. He had quite a good voice, and the fact that he was singing in his own language made it all the better, somehow.

Seras vaguely recognised the song as _Alouette_, something her French teacher had sung to the class at odd times, about plucking a lark's feathers before cooking it. She had never realised before how very _appealing _the song could sound, though fortunately not in the way she had feared. Instead it relaxed her, allowing her to lose some of her tension, and she could sit back into her seat more easily. Admittedly it helped that it was cloudy, so she didn't have to worry about stray rays of sun light catching her off guard, but nevertheless it was nice to simply sit quietly in the driving seat, listening to him sing.

A stray, extremely mischievous thought whispered, _I could actually get used to this._

Pip's song appeared to have an effect on the Paladin as well; she could see in the rear view mirror that Anderson had leaned his head back to rest against the window, and had even closed his eyes. If she'd known French songs would soothe the savage priest – now she allowed herself to giggle at the thought – she would have learned more of them.

Still, it was starting to get a _tad_ repetitive after the twentieth verse, so after some mental struggling she decided to intervene. "Pip? Do you know any other songs? No offense, but this one's getting a bit dull."

"Certainly, sweet Seras! Let me think, let me think…" Bernadette brought one hand off the steering wheel to scratch his head for a moment; and Seras had decided she didn't like the look on his face one bit when he suddenly grinned again. "I have it! The Eskimo song!"

And then, before she could ask what on earth _that _was, he started to sing.

At the end of the second line, she could see in the mirror that Anderson's eyes snapped open to stare up at the roof of the car in pure horror. That would have been funny as well, except that she was feeling much the same way.

_Oh, dear **God.**_

"Good for _you!_ Good for _me!_" Bernadette sang out, as he tapped his foot against the accelerator in time, speeding the car up. _The git. Never mind if he _is _driving, he's going to get it. _Her fingers reached for the rolled up copy of the Irish Times she had bought in the airport.

"Bernadette?" she asked, innocent and sickly sweet, as she grasped hold of her weapon.

"Yes, mignonette?"

"_Shut_up_shut_up_shut_up_shut_up_shut_**up!**" She accompanied each 'up' with a sharp whack on the man's head with her newspaper, driving him down into his seat with each blow. He tried futilely to fend her off with one hand, with little success.

"Ah! _Geez!_ Lay off, woman! I'm driving!"

She gave him one last smack with the paper and then left him alone, but instead spat, "Bernadette, shut up and don't say another _word_ until we get to Kerry. Do you understand me? How far is it to Kerry?" she added over her shoulder to the back seat passenger, still glaring at the wincing driver.

"About two or three hours, Draculina," Anderson said, though sounding shell-shocked; and personally she couldn't blame him.

"Right. No one says _anything_ until we get to Kerry. I'll put the radio on."

* * *

Alucard could dimly feel his sireling's fury at the back of his mind, as well as whom her rage was directed at, and it amused him greatly. Despite what Seras thought, he had had no real intention of harming the mercenary – there would be no point to it, and he _never_ condoned pointless slaughter (despite what his darling little Master thought) but also Bernadette stirred his childe to anger rather than to fear. That was good. She needed to use her rage to unlock her power, and she would never do that if she remained as sweet and innocent as the day he bit her. Bernadette was a breath of fresh air – or at least fairly fresh air.

He pushed the outraged feelings of his pupil out of his head for the moment. He was on a mission, after all, and he needed to focus all of his senses upon the matter in hand. Now was the time of the hunt, when he truly became Integra's hound and put his nose to what scent was there.

He materialized in the middle of the cordoned-off building site now, after thoroughly skirting the surroundings for any potential threats; quite by chance next to two tape outlines that showed where a pair of security guards had fallen in death. Just as the newspaper had said, the outlines ended abruptly at the neck, and there was no sign of the heads anywhere.

Alucard crouched down next to one outline, taking a deep sniff of the air just above it. This was where one of the much less well known abilities of true _nosferatu _came in – very few appreciated the extent of a powerful vampire's sense of smell, not only noticing and identifying scents but catching fleeting scraps of aged fragrances as well, even the _memory _of scents, and by doing so learn exactly what had caused them and when. If he chose, he could smell and therefore see what had happened here a year ago, two years ago, more than that; but right now all he wanted was to know was what had happened two or three nights ago. A pathetically easy task, for a vampire of his ability. Of course, it helped that it hadn't rained in the time between the event and his arrival, but he wasn't going to admit that, not even to himself.

As he sifted the air through his nose, a clear picture began to form in his twisted mind. This man had come around the pile of scaffolding, holding a…yes, a torch, and a gun. He'd found the body of the second man – that one had been standing there for some time already, and had been cut down where he stood.

Here the vampire paused, faintly puzzled, his unnatural nose searching the air and the past it signified for clues. Every weapon left a trace, he knew from his widely varied life and the un-life that came after it; even when he had been a human prince he had always been aware of the differences in wounds left by particular weapons. When he had become a vampire he had quickly learned to identify the difference between a sword thrust and a stab from a large knife simply by smelling and letting the shape and nature of the weapon come to him. Yet now, for some reason that his dark mind could not fathom, when he attempted to guess at the weapon that had done this nothing came to his brain; nothing at all. Here there was neither sword nor knife blade, scythe or any sort of sharp edge that could have cut off a head so cleanly, so very neatly. Nothing. It was as if no weapon had sliced the man's head from his shoulders at all.

This was extremely irritating. In Alucard's extensive and varied experience, humans did not suddenly part company with their heads for no apparent reason. But enough of that for the moment; he would come back to that problem later. For now, he turned his attention back to the second guard. So; he had come around here, found the body, and then…then, the vampire could smell the traces of a hot, deadly fear. The man had been desperately afraid of something. Before him or behind him? Behind; he had swung around and had dropped the torch, he could scent the chemical impact as it had shattered upon the ground. The human had turned to run, and had actually made it a few paces before his own head was struck off, and his body fell a few feet away from that of his colleague.

Once again, his death perplexed Alucard. Something had certainly cut his head off, but it had been done in a manner that truly confused the vampire. Any sort of normal beheading would result in a large arterial spray; but here there had been nothing of the sort. He had been skeptical about the newspaper's report, but now it seemed he was forced to admit the truth: there really was no blood. The ground should have been soaked with it, the air should stink of it, should swim with the memory of it – but there was no blood, and there never had been any blood. What was more, there was no scent of where the heads had hit the ground – if they _had_ hit the ground – as if they had simply disappeared. And, what was most disturbing of all to Alucard, there was no trace of the attacker – not the merest whiff or scent.

_This is ridiculous! _Everything and anythingin the world had a scent, living, dead or otherwise. As a master vampire all the earth was open to him through his sense of smell; not only physical bodies and objects but also blood lines, emotions, desires, intentions; purposes, crimes, innocence, histories, possible futures. Even Set, that petty godling, had had a smell; a stench of past sacrifices and dying masses and fire from heaven, but also a stench of weakness, of defeat as he had skewered the creature's puppet atop Saint Paul's.

But now…now, here, there was not only no smell of an attacker, there was a conspicuous lack of smell – not a scent covered up, or a scent erased, but no scent at all.

_What kind of creature kills and leaves no smell behind it?_

Alucard sat back on his haunches, and thought. Despite his _dear _Master's scathing comments that he never thought about anything beyond the next battle, you couldn't survive five hundred years as a creature of the night without taking some time to contemplate your circumstances, and he was no exception. He had done nothing else for twenty years at one point, after all. So, he thought.

_All things in this world have a scent. I know that. For anything else to be true would be…truly impossible. Even that Judas priest has a smell. So why can I smell nothing here?_

_All things in this world, living or dead, have a scent. So…_

…_perhaps whatever happened here, was carried out by something that is _not _of this world. _

The vampire straightened slowly. It made a strange sort of logic that such a thing happened here, here in the Emerald Isle. For centuries Ireland had had a certain reputation among the circles of the undead, a land where even the most powerful of vampires still preferred not to tread, and not simply because of the holy faith of its people. Rumors of ancient forces that had claimed the land for their own, eons before the first nosferatu had shown its fangs, had ensured that not even he, the No Life King, had quite dared to venture across the Irish Sea and explore the land of Saints and Scholars.

The last and so far only time he'd been here, he'd only gotten as far as Waterford to dispose of that pitiful little slut, not even a _proper_ vampire, but he had already felt the power of the country beneath his very feet. He could feel it now; a deep, _living_ force barely below his feet, pulsing gently like a calm sea, rippling. But it hadn't been calm a few nights ago. These ripples were the sort that occurred when something deep had just burst from the depths, and had not yet gone back to its watery home.

His tongue flicked out to wet his lips as he grinned; it would seem that his boredom was about to be purged, in the sweetest possible way. He must make a mental note to thank his Master later, even though he doubted she had foreseen this. Then again, perhaps she had. Sometimes even _he_ could hardly tell what truly went on inside Integra's remarkable brain, though he could read her thoughts to an extent.

The mere thought of Integra brought her sweet sharp scent to mind, flooding his nose and his senses. Involuntarily he took a step forward, partially overcome by the memory of her fragrance, before he pulled himself together. Integra _would _be his, and he would be hers. It was only a matter of time.

Better to concentrate on the present, and on his mission, and on that conspicuous lack of scent which led away from the building site, like a trail in itself…

Alucard raised one slanting eyebrow. Whatever had come here and slain the guards and left with a trace, that lack of trace marked where they had gone and which route they had taken; rather like an anti-trail, pushing out all natural smells and leaving them scattered in its wake.

_Curious, very curious indeed._

He banished his physical form and set off along the trail after the absence of scent, his mind now completely on the hunt like all loyal dogs.

But even if he had stayed behind, the master vampire would have failed entirely to notice the circle of grass that he had unwittingly stepped in to and out of, and which had glowed briefly like the sheen of sweat before vanishing as quickly as the one who had so recently passed through it.

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I'm sorry for the long time it took to bring this chapter out. I've been going through some tough times. Hopefully, I'll be able to update all my stories more often.**

**For those of you who might think Pip is acting out of character…come on, you _know _he'd do something like that? (I had to look up the lyrics of the Eskimo song on hte internet. My eyeballs bled.) Besides, I wanted to get some silliness in now, because we won't have much time for silliness later on. Gather ye nuts while ye may. Or something like that. And I believe I've answered a question Agent Hunk put forward a _really _long time ago; why does Anderson always take public transport? Well, come one, let's be serious, could you really, actually see him fitting into an ordinary car? Much better to let someone else do the driving in a vehicle you can actually sit down in.**

**And yes, you can tell by the Alucard bit that I have been reading _Perfume. _I think it was about time that they made a film out of that book. It makes me feel all the more depressed about my own efforts.**

**One last note; from now on quite a few of the places I mention will be real places, since one of the areas featured in the story I am quite familiar with; that being the town of Killarney in Kerry, and the surrounding county. As a matter of fact, the farm mentioned back in the last chapter is actually a real place, owned by a fairly close cousin of my mum, though I've changed his name. If any of the places that I mention in Ireland from now on are real places, I'll point it out – if I remember.**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	7. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Hellsing, or anything from Michael Scott's Irish Folk and Fairy Tales Omnibus.**

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Chapter Six

It was six o'clock in the evening when Integra received the tensely awaited phone-call from her contacts in Ireland. She had spent much of the rest of the day, after changing out of her odious outfit and restraining herself with difficulty from burning it, reading various reports of non-Median activity, which reassured her much less than it might have done a few months ago and instead worried her more than she cared to admit, even to Walter. What were the Freaks planning now, now that they had lost their trump card in the form of Incognito and those he had corrupted to his cause? This calmness and lack of retaliation concerned her. Granted, they no longer had as many resources as they once had to keep track of attacks across the country, but the other knights certainly still did. She hadn't even received any smug reports from various upstarts in the Round Table informing her of incidents that Hellsing, in its still dilapidated state, should have been able to prevent.

Sir Islands, her closest ally in the Round Table, had even written her a letter personally, stating the puzzlement of the other ten members of the Table and himself at the distinct absence of any undead activity in the country in the past few weeks. She had read it several times, and each time the words brought her still more trepidation: _"While some of the members of the Convention of Twelve are not as experienced in these matters as others, Sir Integral, both you and I know better, and through us they will learn all too soon that the threat has not yet been defeated. This silence on the part of our enemies bodes, in the long run, no good for the Royal Protestant Knights, or for poor wounded England. I fear – indeed, I think we all fear – that this is merely the metaphorical calm before the storm. I hope indeed that we will be equal to the storm when it breaks upon us." _

_Amen to that. _Integra knew that they had not seen the last of that chip with its flagrant swastika, and she had been harboring less than pleasant thoughts about the brain-child behind this whole scheme. _If Incognito served a master as well, who was that master?_

This was all too sinister. She was not that used to _whodunits._ Usually in her line of work she knew _who_ exactly had done _what_, meaning that she could dispatch one of her many employees to shoot them, or occasionally order Alucard to rip them apart. Now she was forced to play a detective game, without all that many soldiers to enforce her will, and she had no idea of what her opponent's next bloody move would be.

_If I were Alucard, I'd probably make up some ridiculous metaphor about chess._

And Iscariot were becoming more of a threat, no matter how well she may or may not have handled this particular negotiation with the Vatican. She couldn't bear the thought of Maxwell outmaneuvering her, but if she didn't keep her wits about her such might be the case. She, the daughter of the Hellsings, the Virgin of the Order, might be outwitted by the Pope's secret little lapdog.

_Besieged on all sides. This secret threat, the Catholic dogs, my own ruddy countrymen, not forgetting my own pet. Who will break me first? _

But she wouldn't let that happen.

It gratified her somewhat, when she picked up the receiver at long last, to hear through the faint static that Seras sounded marginally as worried and, frankly, pissed off as she herself felt. "Sir Hellsing?"

"Seras. How are you doing?"

"O…kay, sir. Sort of. We landed at about twelve and rented a jeep from the air port."

"Where are you now?" Integra asked, settling back into her comfortable leather chair and tapping the table, waiting to get to the meat of the matter.

"In County Kerry, round about Killarney, sir. That's what Anderson says anyway."

"Killarney?" Integra wasn't that familiar with the layout of the country, but she had read up enough on its geography last night. "It took you _five_ hours to get from Cork to Killarney? What on earth happened?"

"Road rage on Captain Bernadette's part. Also, he drove up the wrong mountain at least once. We had to ask _Anderson_ for directions." The tone of Seras's voice more than slightly implied that she had not been at all pleased with this turn of events.

"Oh, dear. But you are all in one piece. Or pieces, rather?"

Seras's voice went lower, as if hoping that one particular member of the jeep would catch her words. "Anderson's pouting because he kept hitting his head on the ceiling when Bernadette drove too fast, but apart from that we're all fine." The vampire giggled, some humor leaking into her tired voice.

Doing her best to put the image of a pouting Anderson, which was none too pleasant, out of her mind, Integra went on, "Do you have any plans for the night?"

"I think we were going to find a bed and breakfast, there's loads of them around here. After that we just – wait!" Seras's voice suddenly turned urgent, and she was faintly worried to hear other sounds in the background; loud voices, and a change in what was obviously the car's speed.

"Seras?" There was no answer from her employee. _"Seras?"_

At once Seras's voice came back. "Yes, sorry sir! Anderson just told Bernadette to stop the car, which is pretty stupid because this is such a narrow lane. But anyway – hold on-" Integra heard her speaking, unable to make out the words but able to hear the sharpness of the tone; then Seras was back again, more urgent than before. "Anderson's getting out. I think he's going to that house up the hill. We're going to go with him. I have to go, sir, I'll call you back as soon as I can."

The line went dead. Integra stared at the phone before sighing and putting it back in the receiver. Hopefully Seras would call her back, but she would have to be prepared …just in case. For now, she'd have a look through the mound of books Walter had found for her on any supernatural events that had occurred in Ireland. It made her feel slightly less useless.

* * *

Seras slipped the portable phone into her bag before leaping out of the passenger seat and haring off after Anderson, who had already cleared the aluminum gate that separated the field piece of property from the road, and was now crunching up the drive towards the house set on the hill. Behind her she heard Bernadette cursing softly, as he searched for a torch she knew he wouldn't find.

Even with her own rather enhanced night-vision, the prospect was still not exactly pleasant. The stark nature of the flint-walled building they were rapidly approaching, with two bare trees situated on either side of it, upstairs windows dark and empty and downstairs ones dimly lit and curtains drawn, and the general slightly dilapidated state of the place, made her think uncomfortably of ghost stories and horror films, which she had never been overly fond of. The eerie setting was only enhanced by the creak of a forlorn swing hanging from the branches of one of the trees, swung to and fro by the wind, as if some invisible personage were sitting in it.

"This is your mission, isn't it?" she asked, easily keeping pace with the priest's great strides as they advanced through the darkness. "Is there someone in that house that you've got to 'take care of'?" Seras had been aware of what Anderson was probably in Ireland to do, given that most if not all of the Iscariot Organization consisted of assassins, but that didn't mean she had to like it. She wondered dully what the people in this little house had done to warrant the anger of the Vatican in such a brutal manner.

"Not some_one_, Draculina – some_thing_," Anderson shot back without looking at her. She could see his face was set and calm, rather than wearing the manic grin so reminiscent of his fights with Mas-Alucard. "These people need my aid – who am I to refuse it?"

_Oh, goody, _Seras thought dryly, as she darted a glance over her shoulder to see Bernadette stumbling up the gravel drive after them. _Dear lord, I hope this doesn't turn into a blood bath. I'll have to stop him – or at least try to. _The thought was less than cheering.

Bernadette caught them up as they reached the front door, which fortunately was lit from overhead by a lamp that Anderson came dangerously close to banging his face into. Ignoring this, the priest gingerly pushed the doorbell with one of his huge fingers, and then stood back and waited. The situation was utterly ridiculous – Paladin Anderson, who had clearly killed far more people than she'd care to guess, was actually waiting in a civilized fashion to enter a house? Seras shook her head in utter disbelief.

After a few moments in which none of them said a word, though Bernadette blew on his hands a little to rid himself of the cold – the need of an ordinary human that neither Seras nor Anderson needed to worry about any longer – the door was opened, by a red-haired man in his late twenties. The light from above shone upon his haggard face and shadowed eyes as he stared out at them with trepidation. Seras was reminded uncomfortably of the faces of her comrades that terrible night at Cheddar, after the first attack of what she would come to recognise in time as vampires – the face of someone who was not at the moment afraid, but who had know fear, great fear, and might at any moment experience it again. How strange that she should have come so far and grown so much, and yet come face to face with that strange, half-dead look again.

"Are you Patrick MacMahon?" Anderson asked gently – it shocked her to hear how gentle his voice could be, when she had only ever heard it in arrogance or fanaticism, directed at her or those around her.

The young man blinked up at him, hardly startled by his great height, taking in his collar. "I am that, Father. What can I do for you?"

"I am Father Alexander Anderson. The Church of Rome has heard of the plight of you and your wife, and they sent me to aid you."

The man's tired, dull eyes actually seemed to light up at the priest's words, and he gazed more keenly at Anderson's face. "May we come in?" he went on, taking a step forward

Patrick nodded, almost eagerly. "Of course, of course. Come in, Father, please." He stood aside to allow Anderson to ease his way in through the doorway, swiftly followed by Bernadette who was obviously eager to get in out of the cold. For Seras, still standing on the doorstep, it was more problematic; she still wasn't quite sure if she could enter a stranger's home without being specifically invited in. She'd never really had a chance to test the theory, and she wasn't especially eager to do so now.

Patrick, naturally, wasn't aware of the conundrum she faced, but he was polite. "Oh, do you come in as well, please!" He waved with his hand, further cementing her claim to walk into his abode, and she accepted it gratefully, stepping through the doorway and onto the carpet of the front hall. Though she didn't feel the cold as much as she did when she was human, it was still nice to get inside; that was, until she caught a whiff of the air that almost made her dart back outside again. Something was wrong here, in this house. Something was desperately, unnaturally, horribly _wrong._

Patrick carefully shut the door, before turning to view his surprise guests. "Shall I get you a cup of anything, or…?"

"It would be best if you took us straight to _it_, Mr. MacMahon," Anderson said softly.

"Of…of course." The relief was still in Patrick's face, but the promise of fear was swiftly coming back. "I'll take you, but just a minute."

He ducked through a door; Seras had a view of a softly lit room, cozily decorated, with a little fire crackling in a small fire place, sending a smell of an oddly earthy kind to tickle her nose, though it couldn't erase the general scent of misery and weariness that permeated the air here, soaking into the very walls of the place, almost overwhelming.

Patrick was speaking to someone just out of sight beyond the door way. Seras, out of respect for privacy, tried her best not to listen to the conversation; but when she caught the muttered phrase "…going to deal with it…", she couldn't resist craning her head a little, and so caught sight of a young woman sitting in an armchair by the fire, her dark brown hair trailing loosely over her shoulders and a blanket across her knees, looking up at Patrick earnestly. She too shared his haggard looks and suggestion of fear, but in her face there was also a general air of despair and apathy that had plainly been there for some time, which unnerved Seras even further. She could both see and faintly smell that the woman had been crying, and recently at that. She felt ashamed, and quickly straightened her head, looking back at a picture of a water-colour of flowers on the wall opposite her.

"And who are you all, now?"

She turned rather hurriedly, to see that a middle-aged woman had come out of a door at the end of the passage, carrying a tea tray with three steaming mugs on it. It was odd to see someone who seemed utterly unaffected by the melancholy that appeared to hang over the house and which had infected the two other people in it, as she stood there in a dark dress, thick tights, sensible shoes and a waist apron; a vestige of normality in this strange, sinister place. She looked rather like somebody's friendly grandmother, fairly short, with rosy cheeks and short iron grey hair and with laughter lines around her mouth and eyes, and she smelled of comforting things like sugar and furniture polish, but right now she was shooting the three of them a rather piercing stare that would have been more at home on a face like Sir Integral's.

"Ummm…"

"It's all right, Mrs. Hayes!" Patrick had come out of the sitting room again, slightly holding up his hands to placate this strange little woman. "This is Father Alexander Anderson, and…" He trailed off, looking over at her questioningly.

"I'm Seras Victoria, and this is Pip Bernadette," she cut in quickly, deliberately leaving out their military roles. "We came with Father Anderson, to help him."

"Help him? With what?" Mrs. Hayes turned her eyes to the tall priest, perhaps daring him to have an answer, but Anderson was quick to respond.

"The Church of Rome has sent me to lift the shadow upon this house, Mrs. Hayes." Anderson would never be cowed, but it was still oddly amusing to see him adjusting to converse with an old Irish lady.

"Did they now?" The woman's face softened slightly, though the suspicion was still there. "And what does Siobhan think of this?"

"Ah…that's what I wanted to say." Patrick plucked at Anderson's sleeve. "Father – she wants to see you, for a moment."

"But of course." Anderson followed him, ducking even further to get through the doorway, Mrs. Hayes coming swiftly after with her burden of tea. The two of them stayed behind in the corridor, again out of respect, and did their best not to meet each other's eyes. This homelike scene, however odd, however strange, touched Seras somewhere deep inside. She had always thought, before Cheddar, that she would perhaps like to meet someone someday, marry, and live out in the country, perhaps even have children. Now, she never would. She never could. Silently she allowed herself to mourn this loss, while at the same time wondering if Bernadette was thinking the same thing, thinking of the things that being a mercenary denied him.

Mind you, she would _never_ have wanted to live in a house like this.

She heard a soft blessing from Anderson, and could smell that Siobhan had started to cry silently again. Anderson was rapidly sitting himself through the doorway again, with Patrick following. The young man quietly shut the door again before saying softly, "Siobhan will be all right. That's why Mrs. Hayes is here. She's moved in for a few days to…help." He didn't elaborate upon what sort of help the young couple were in need of, aside from the sort that Anderson seemed ready to give.

"It's up here," he added, making his way towards the stairs. "Siobhan prefers not to go near it. None of us do, really. We've taken to living on the ground floor."

"Naturally," Anderson grunted, as he followed Patrick up the stairs, Seras and Pip close behind him. Now her curiosity increased, along with her nervousness. What exactly was it that Anderson had been sent to do? What – she quailed at the thought – what _exactly_ were this strained couple and the firm, sensible Mrs. Hayes hiding up on the second floor of the house that they shied away from and yet still kept in the house?

She could see perfectly well in the dark landing, but Patrick switched the light on unknowingly for the benefit of those who had less than supernatural vision. Silently he walked along until he reached the first room on the left, and pulled a key out of his pocket. They stood in likewise silence as he fitted it into the lock, and turned it. Seras inexplicably found herself standing closer to Bernadette, feeling his warmth at her back oddly comforting, as she watched with increasing anxiety.

_Why the locking in? What's _in_ that room?_

Patrick coughed nervously, as the door swung open. "We keep it in here. We feed it, and keep it clean. We really don't dare do anything else."

"You did well." Already Anderson was striding into the room, but not before Seras made out, in the gloom, the shape of what was distinctly a baby's cot, all alone in the middle of the darkened room. "Now _I_ will deal with this creature." The priest's voice abruptly lost its softness, taking on a familiar harsh edge.

Seras hurried after him, even as Patrick touched some switch that turned on a faint light in the ceiling. Anderson had reached the crib and was standing, gazing down at whatever lay within it. Seras reached his side, hardly daring to see what-

It was a baby. A perfectly normal looking baby, little more than a few months old, wearing a light pink baby-grow and a woolly cap on its head. It seemed to be asleep as it lay on its back, its starfish fingers opening and closing slightly, one leg uncurling as the other curled.

Seras felt her breath catch in her chest, the lost dream still dominant. So unwanted, so alone, so free for caring for, poor little thing; it might almost be _her _baby. She longed to reach down and stroke the soft lock of hair she could see peeping from beneath the cap. She longed to put her nose to its skin and smell its soft baby scent, so soft and delicate, so odd that she couldn't catch even a trace of its scent now, but still _so sweet…_

A noise to her right made her start out of her dream; she looked around in time to see Anderson pulling a rather sharp knife out of his coat – _how the hell did he get _that _through customs? _she thought briefly before she gasped and put out a hand to grab his wrist, using her own vampiric strength to halt his strike.

"Stop it! What are you doing?" Roughly Anderson shook her off; she landed hard on the carepet but pushed herself up again furiously. "What are you _doing?_ You can't _kill_ it, it's only a _baby!_" She ignored Bernadette pulling her up, instead focusing all her anger on Anderson. The priest only smiled, looking down into the cot.

"This creature is far from innocent. See clear, Victoria," he said softly, running his finger along the edge of the blade.

"What are you-" she began, as she looked down at the occupant of the cot as well, and fought down the urge to scream.

No living creature had ever born eyes like that. The _thing _looked up at Anderson through blank, rotting eyes, the eyes of something dead, something decaying, a corpse's eyes in a baby's chubby face. As she stared it turned its disgusting gaze to her. She had fought off and dispatched ghouls aplenty, even faced the deceased remains of her former allies, but this creature's repulsive stare was almost more than her resolve could bear.

"_Mon dieu," _she heard Bernadette mutter behind her, followed by several other phrases in obscure French.

"What _is _it?" she asked, hardly daring to speak lest the thing suddenly fly for her throat. She desperately wanted a gun, any gun. "Is it a ghoul?" But no, it didn't smell like a ghoul. It didn't – _it doesn't smell like anything, _she thought, beginning to panic. _What kind of creature has no smell at all?_

"Hardly," Anderson replied, never taking his eyes away from the creature as it stretched and yawned, the innocent actions making it all the more foul. "This is an evil demon – a changeling, substituted for a human child. An abomination, which the Church of Rome must destroy."

Patrick had joined them by now, walking around to the other side of the cot, and was looking down at the thing with obvious loathing, though less obvious fear than she had expected. "Something took my little girl," he said softly, flatly. "Only about a week ago. Something took my Ciara, and they left _that _in her place." He sighed and looked up at Anderson. "If you want to kill it, Father, I won't stop you. We lost our daughter; I won't keep this thing any longer. It would be a blessing to see it dead."

Even as Anderson grinned and raised the knife again, a voice rang out from the doorway: "But would it not be more of a blessing to keep it alive, so that you might have a chance of seeing your daughter again?" Mrs. Hayes walked swiftly into the room, stopping a few paces from them and folding her arms. "You heard me, Patrick MacMahon, and you too, Alexander Anderson, or whoever you might be. If you kill this changeling, you will have lost all chance of ever retrieving Ciara. While it is alive and healthy, there may be a chance that those who took Ciara could be…_persuaded_ into giving it back to you."

_This is all too strange, _Seras thought, as she stared at this strange, strange woman, so small and frail and yet still so strong, as she glared at the great form of the priest.

"This is an unholy demon. It is my duty to see it dead." Anderson held up the knife yet again, for emphasis.

"But is it not also your duty to save the lives of innocents? Put your knife down, Father, and listen to what I have to say." She glared at him. "Put it _down, _I said."

Anderson paused, and slowly lowered the knife, tucking it back into his coat, turning to look Mrs. Hayes full in the face, his face blank and unreadable.

Seras was shocked by Bernadette;s voice – it had been a while since she had heard the French man speak. "So, do you know what's going on here, then?"

Mrs. Hayes strode to the cot, clearing a path for herself with her determined stride that brooked nothing to stand in her way, and stopped beside Seras as she stared down at the creature. "Oh, I know what is going on," she said softly, and now a shadow of her own came into her face. "I know full well."

**

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A few notes about the traveling which I forgot to mention:**

**1) You might be wondering how Seras managed to get through check in when she doesn't have a passport any more, since she's…you know… 'dead'. Since this is set in about 1997 or 1998, as the original Hellsing manga is, you didn't yet need a passport to get into Ireland – even if you did need to have your luggage scanned. Nowadays with all this terrorism, you even have to take your shoes off to make sure you're not carrying any explosives! I think Alucard could still get away with it today, though, since he's got that whole Jedi mind trick he used on the receptionist in Rio.**

**2) Also, neither Seras nor Alucard have their coffins, and they're traveling around traveling around in the day time. Again I plead the effect of Alucard's blood, but also that if Alucard is a No-Life King who can pull himself back together after being shot apart and survive in a dungeon for twenty years with no sustenance, I think he can handle a little sunlight – not that it's very sunny in Ireland in mid-October anyway. After all, other legends don't seem to work on him, do they? Plus add on the fact that he's been experimented on by the Hellsing family for a number of years, and I don't think Alucard, and therefore Seras, is going to need much sun-cream. As for the coffins…yes, well, in this modern day and age I don't think the vampires need to sleep in their coffins _all_ the time. Alucard certainly doesn't seem to spend much time in his, if any at all, even if he does keep carting it around with him. Since they're only a few hundred miles away from their 'final domains', I shouldn't think they'll mind sleeping in a bed – if Alucard sleeps at all.**

**The MacMohan house is based on a house we always used to pass when we were driving into Killarney from the country, which was usually where we were staying. It's next to a much busier road than I used in the story, and as far as I know it's abandoned. I always used to think it would be the perfect setting for a ghost story since it looked so bleak and lonely.**

**It's much easier to travel around Ireland now that more motorways have been built, but back in the 1990s getting from Cork to Kerry meant a long and possible stressful drive along some rather narrow roads leading through various hills, and a potentially bumpy ride. I rather miss those rides, even though the new motorway is _much_ more convenient. **

**Mrs. Hayes is based closely upon a character in Michael Scott's Irish Folk and Fairy Tales Omnibus, Nano Hayes, an old lady who is much more than she appears to be. She's a favourite of mine in the stories, as well as a recurring one throughout the book, or rather books. A few others who appear in _this_ story will also be based on various characters from this wonderful book, though of course I'm not going to tell you who exactly. (Hee hee!)

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****Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	8. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing, nor the various legends you will see within.**

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"Right. Thanks. I'll see you in a few minutes, then." 

Sinead finished her call and sighed, slipping the mobile phone back into her handbag and placing the bag itself onto the driving seat of her car. She could have called George as well, now she came to think of it, but somehow she balked at the prospect. If the man couldn't be bothered to come and see her perform at her biggest venue yet, then was he worth calling in a crisis? So she'd simply phoned the breakdown people in Cork, and had done with it.

She leaned on the side of the little car, glaring balefully at the hood, which was still up from when she'd lifted it to take a look at what might be wrong, and had admitted herself stumped. She supposed that she should be grateful that the vehicle hadn't packed up when she was on her way to the wedding reception thrown in that big country house; but all the same, it could have waited until she got to somewhere more heavily populated before giving up the ghost, instead of choosing to do so in a lonely country lane, past midnight. It was lucky she even knew where she was and had told the breakdown company her location; otherwise she might be completely stranded, with a car that wasn't going anywhere at the moment and her _cláirseach _harp in the back seat.

Sinead looked up at the sky, stretching out above her. She wished that she could see the stars. She'd almost forgotten what it was like to see them clearly, though she'd only lived in Cork about a month; the fumes from the buildings around her had always clouded the sky, blotting out the little pinpoints of light that usually accompanied the moon on cloudless nights. But this night, unfortunately, was very cloudy indeed, covering up even the moon. It was just typical.

Gradually, after about five minutes of staring up at the clouds, hoping futilely that they would part and give her some light other than the measly glow she had from the overhead light in the car and the sickly gleam from the headlights, she grew exasperated with hearing nothing but her own breath, and reached back in to switch the radio on. She half felt like getting back into the car as well – it was quite cold out here, after all – but her rescuers probably needed _some _sign that this was the car they needed to help, apart from the hood being up. Her standing outside, ready to wave them down, seemed to be the best solution.

The radio lit up, and at once began to pound out ridiculous pop music of some sort. She winced, and quickly switched it to FM3. At once a much more soothing melody met her ears – harp music. She grinned. It was nice to know that the _cláirseach _was making a bit of a comeback, though it would probably never be as popular as her teacher had told her it had once been. The familiar sounding music washed around her as she opened the back door of the vehicle, and pulled out the crocheted shawl she had brought along in case the hosts of the party had wanted her to play her instrument out of doors. Thankfully, she had had no use for it until now.

As she wrapped it around her shoulders, she abruptly became aware of another noise underneath the strains of the radio, faint but perfectly clear – something that sounded very much like a horse's hooves, striking slowly against the tarmac of the road, gradually getting closer. That was odd enough to make her straighten up, narrowly avoiding cracking her head on the car roof. Who on earth would be riding a horse at this time of night, after all? There were probably a few farms around here, for all she knew, but any sensible person would be in bed by this point and hopefully asleep, and every horse would be in the stables, asleep as well. Then again, if the person lived nearby, it might be helpful in some way.

She could see a shape now, just beyond the range of the headlights, steadily approaching. Good grief, it really was huge, one of the biggest horses she'd ever seen. Her newly sprung concern was only increased by the fact that she couldn't make out the shape of a rider on the horse's back at all. Perhaps it had escaped, then? She had more than half a mind to nip back into the car and shut the doors, lest it turned out to be violent. In fact, she was already grabbing hold of the back door to carefully close it shut, taking care not to trap her long velvet sleeve in the process, when the animal finally stepped into the combined light of the headlights' beam and the abrupt emergence of the moon, and she was able to see it properly for the first time.

At first she thought that there was some sort of joke going on, and not a very good one at that. What person would be so cruel as to fix fake horns onto the poor creature's head? And such big curling ones at that, arching over its head, surely they'd hamper the animal dreadfully when it was trying to feed or drink. But as the black horse got closer and closer, walking along quite calmly and unconcernedly, it became more obvious to her by the second that the horns - which would definitely have not looked out of place on an outsized goat – were not fastened on by any means. Sinead could make out the point where skin and fur graciously stopped, and horn began; the curved monstrosities were actually growing directly from the horse's skull.

In that case, this couldn't possibly be a normal horse. It was something else altogether.

She gripped the metal of the door in something akin to growing terror. She _knew_ she should get back into the car and lock the doors, she _knew_ she should try to get herself as far away as possible from this – this thing. Her mind was shrieking at her to do something, she wanted to do something, but her legs didn't seem to want to move. Oh _why _didn't her legs want to move, now, of all times?

She only realised the extent of her predicament when she became aware of something cool and hard and ridged brushing her left cheek, and she focused her eyes again just in time to see the beast straightening its neck, with its terrible horns pointed directly at her head and both its eyes fixed, impossibly, upon her face. She dizzily saw that they were glowing yellow, as if she needed any more confirmation that this being was abnormal.

If she made a wrong move, she was most likely dead. One of those horns alone, if wielded properly, could probably kill her with a blow; and even if the creature had had no such weapons it would easily be able to knock her to the ground and trample the life out of her. She had to work hard not to whimper, as the very thought made her feel as if she wanted to throw up every last morsel of food she'd eaten in the last few hours. She could feel her hand shaking ever so slightly, the metal beneath it slippery with her sweat.

"You are Sinead O'Conner."

Sinead thought her legs would collapse from underneath her at those words. This was beyond everything that had happened to her this night. The horse couldn't _possibly- _but then, as she had already worked out, this thing wasn't a horse, was it?

"You are Sinead O'Conner," the creature said again, coolly, barely opening its mouth to speak. Surprisingly for such a large beast, its voice was thin and high, almost like that of a child; and for all that the being was standing right in front of her, scaring the spit out of her, it sounded as if it came from a great distance away. It leaned its head forward again and prodded her cheek gently with one of the curling horns, as if trying to push an answer out of her.

It seemed to work; as soon as the horn touched her skin she blurted out, uncontrollably, "I am."

"You are a harpist." Again it did not sound as if it were asking a question, but merely stating a fact.

"I am."

The creature looked faintly pleased, as if only waiting for that confirmation, and it – no, _he_; for some reason she could tell that this thing was definitely male – lowered his head even further forward, so that the tip of each horn was on either side of her face, and his yellow eyes were level with her own.

"You will come with me," was all he said.

"I will?" she managed, with a struggle. Those eyes were like dams. They kept her mind in one place, like a lake, and they kept other things out, like rivers of dread and fear. Her hand was no longer shaking, and her sweat had long since cooled.

"You will." The creature gestured with his horns towards the inside of the car, on of them brushing against her head, though his eyes never left hers. "Take out your harp from its box."

Slowly, as if she were moving through water rushing against her all the time, she pulled the door further open again, and reached inside for the box that held her harpfeeling the weight of his eyes upon her back all the time, pushing her forward against the floodHer shawl fell off again, rippling to the floor, as she opened the lid and carefully drew the harp out from its packing, one hand supporting it and one holding it carefully to her, as she had had drilled into her.

As soon as she had turned to face him and met his eyes once more, the creature nodded. For one instant his yellow orbs left hers as he traced the gleam of the moonlight upon the wood and the way the brass wires shone, and for that instant she felt as if she had surfaced from underwater, and her tongue worked.

"What _are _you?" she demanded, stepping backwards and meeting the body of her car with a thud. At once those yellow eyes were back on her again, and she was plunged back under the water again, and the only way she could survive was by doing exactly what the creature wanted. She gasped for the air she feared would not come; she feared drowning on dry land.

"I am the Púca," he said at length. "Climb onto my back."

Even in this state, she hesitated, and he chuckled, with no humor in his high, thin tone whatsoever. "You need not fear me. I will not harm you. Climb onto my back."

"How?" she asked fearfully, clasping her instrument tighter. It had been many years since she had ridden a horse, and then it had never been more than once or twice. How was she to mount when she was carrying a heavy, fragile harp; and how was she to stay on when there was no saddle, nor stirrups nor reins?

The Púca chuckled again, though perhaps with the smallest smidgeon of humor this time, and his front legs bent forward and to the ground, lowering his back enough for her to clamber on clumsily. She had barely managed to settle astride him before he straightened again, and she had to grab for his flowing mane to keep upright and not slide off. Her legs tightened instinctively, her trousers rasping against the sleek fur.

"You need not fear," the creature repeated softly. "I will not let you fall." To Sinead it seemed as if, in her internment under the water, a face had suddenly swum up to her out of the darkness, handsome and smiling and with some very familiar horns upon his head, but it was gone barely as she realised its presence in her mind.

"Where will you take me?" she muttered, holding her harp closely to her with her free hand, the other threading tighter through the Púca's black mane.

"Where have you come from?"

"A wedding. I was playing at a wedding." Even now she could remember the pride she had felt when everyone had applauded her, and the bride and groom had personally thanked her for playing so well and so very beautifully. That seemed so very long ago, now, and even further back seemed the time when she had played at her cousin Helena's wedding, the time when she had decided, once and for all, that she would play professionally. Would she ever have such a chance again? Would she ever even see her family again?

"Then you are in luck, Sinead O'Conner. For if all goes as it should, you will play at a wedding again, soon enough."

With a clatter of hooves, the Púca and its new rider were gone. As the echo faded away into the night, the car radio continued to play a tranquil tune plucked out by a harp, and the headlights and the moonlight continued to shine together upon an empty road.

* * *

Integral opened her eyes, and at once cursed herself for falling asleep in the middle of her research. A swift glance at the clock reassured her that barely a minute had passed since she had last looked at it – it was still only about fifteen after one in the morning. 

She glanced at the books scattered across her desk. Irish mythology, she had swiftly decided, was _very _confusing. Even more confusing than Greek mythology, where all the gods appeared to be inbred and bestiality seemed disturbingly popular. Potentially true history blended constantly with legend, and it was sometimes hard to tell who had been real and who was simply a story. She had spent at least three hours reading about the Tuatha Dé Danann, a civilization who may or may not have been descended from Scythians, and who were apparently the fifth group of people to inhabit Ireland. That wasn't what intrigued her; such invasions and defeats had happened to a lesser extent in England, after all. What intrigued her was that many members of this race had been considered as gods, until the Catholic church had reduced their status to mere historical kings and heroes, and in some cases even assimilated them. Bridghit, for example, had been an extremely influential goddess, connected to many holy wells and flames, until she had been transformed into Saint Brigid.

_Did this mean something?_ In the end, she had decided to come back to it later, leaving the books she had examined filled with bookmarks at various pages of interest. She really needed to look at things that could be influential in this day and age, and not read about people that, if they had actually lived, were long dead by now.

She had been reading an omnibus of Irish monsters and spirits for the last hour now, writing off each ghost or ghoul as dissatisfactory. And she had nodded off, if only for a moment, on the 'P's. As she blinked, focusing on the page in front of her, naturally she re-read it.

**The Púca (**_**poo**_**-ka): a faery creature, both respected and greatly feared. A shape shifter, capable of assuming numerous terrifying forms, its favourite appears to be that of a sleek horse. Considered to be one of the most powerful and frightening of all faery folk, the Púca will waylay travelers at night, and if they are coaxed onto its back it will carry them out of this world, never to be seen again. It can blight all crops not collected in time, as well as the very berries and fruits that hang upon the bushes and trees. The Púca is capable of speaking with a human tongue, and can if it so wishes call those whom it wishes for a ride upon its back. If the chosen one does not appear, the creature is capable of great destruction, tearing down all in its path…**

…And so on. Integral raised one slanting eyebrow. She remembered this, just before she had closed her eyes for that cursed doze, and she had thought how melodramatic it all was. If Irish people had had to put up with all this, along with everything else that appeared to exist in the country – assuming, of course, that any of the various creatures in this book _did _exist – then it was just as well vampires hadn't exactly been keen on crossing the Irish Sea. Looking back through the pages she'd already perused, she could perhaps guess what had kept the bloodsuckers away in the first place.

She allowed herself a small sigh as she closed the book gently and placed it on her desk. She wasn't going to find anything useful in there. Whatever the creatures in there did to the poor unfortunates that inhabited that island, none of them cut off a victim's head and left the body untouched, with no trace of blood. She was following a false trail, she knew it. She only hoped Alucard was having better luck. She was expecting him any minute, his voice worming like a needle into her brain.

Or _had_ he already visited? She paused while rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and she thought quickly. What was it she had seen in her doze again? She remembered something, something important, something which she had observed with the detached interest of an onlooker.

There had been a woman, yes…she had seen a young woman, like her in many ways. She too had been tall and thin and possessed of a considerable quantity of blonde hair, although her skin was far paler than Integra's own creamy brown and her locks were a deeper gold and had been tied back, which the leader of Hellsing seldom if ever did. There had been a navy blue velvet top, with hanging sleeves, and black trousers, and sensible shoes. There had been a harp, made of wood and strung with some sort of metal wire.

And there had been a horse too, now that she remembered more clearly; a black one, with a flowing mane and…horns? Had she actually dreamed about a horse with curling horns, and glowing yellow eyes? Well, if she had, it wouldn't have been the strangest dream she'd ever experienced, thanks to a certain vampiric servant of hers. While the nosferatu usually behaved himself when it came to her unconscious mind, there were times when he simply couldn't resist.

Had the dream been Alucard's doing? She would not put it past him, especially considering the way he had ravaged her consciousness in the weeks before Incognito had attacked. If her servant was responsible for this, she would make sure that he paid dearly for it. That foul Scottish bitch had died far too quickly for more than this, but she would not tolerate such manhandling, even if it left no physical marks upon her. To her, it was the worst violation.

Furiously she felt for any connection that might betray the vampire's presence coiled inside her mind like a maggot, but there was no hint or trace of him, which she hadbecome quite adapt at recognizing. But that meant nothing; he might just have hidden his presence extremely well in order to fully take advantage of her.

She forced herself to calm down. When Alucard chose to make his presence felt, _then_ she would let him feel the full force of her anger, and not before. For now, she would simply tidy up the books, and them retire to bed for some much needed sleep.

She rose from her chair, pushed it inwards and walked around the desk to pick up a book she knew had fallen to the floor earlier, but have delayed retrieving until now. In doing so she unwittingly turned her face towards the window, and quite by chance her eyes gravitated to the shadows outside it; and she found herself meeting the glowing yellow gaze of something that had perhaps been looking over her shoulder all the while she had been seated.

_Is it an eagle? _she thought quickly, as her mind went automatically into combat mode, calculating the risks she had. _It looks big enough for one from what I can see, but what would an eagle be doing _here_, of all places? _She slowly began to step backwards, wondering whether or not to call for Walter or security. After all, the glass of her office windows was reinforced and bullet proof and she doubted that a bird of prey, however big, would be able to break it.

The next moment, far too late, she realised that the bird didn't need to break the window to get in, far from it. There was an instant in which the glass seemed to be nothing more than a curtain of water, water that could easily be walked through; and then it was done, and the bird was actually in the room now, perching on the back of the chair that she had so recently vacated. He – somehow she had known, ever since she had first laid eyes upon it, that the bird was male, though how she could not tell - flexed his feet with their sharp talons, tearing the velvet of the backing and scratching the valuable wood; his yellow eyes were still fixed upon her, and now they seemed to contain a kind of smugness completely alien to the animal brain, as if she needed any more confirmation that this creature was far from normal, or safe.

Now more than ever it was imperative that she make no sudden moves, and get as swiftly as she could to an alarm button; there were several situated about the room, and the nearest at this point was on the mantelpiece over the fire place. For the second time in five minutes she cursed herself, though this time it was for not keeping her guns at her waist. _Idiot! _she thought savagely, taking care never to loose eye contact with the thing watching her very closely. Alucard had taught her long ago that her will was strong enough to look various monsters in the eye where other humans would quickly fall under a spell, and that she should use it to her advantage whenever she could. She had only determined her resolve after falling prey to the Scottish bitch, and now she felt sure that she could keep her will when faced with this monster.

And then, just as she felt the hardness of the mantelpiece brush at her shoulder, the bird that wasn't a bird stretched its neck forward and opened his beak, and spoke in a voice rather like a young boy, standing at the end of a long tunnel. "You are Integral Hellsing."

Integral was not at all sure what to make of this. In her time she had faced far worse than talking birds, but the sound of that childlike voice coming from the cruel-looking beak was a less than pleasant thing to hear. She took another few steps backwards, feeling the cool of the edge of the mantelpiece press against her shoulder. Five or six more steps, she judged.

The bird seemed annoyed at her lack of response and hopped forward off the chair, scratching both the wood of the desk and some of the books that littered it in the process. "You are Integral Hellsing," he said again, and this time there was some insistence in his tone.

"What if I am?" she shot back at once, putting a hand up to the mantelpiece so that her fingers would be able to find the alarm. _What is so familiar about this?_ she wondered. _Where have I heard this before?_

"You are the one I came to find." This time the bird hopped to the edge of the desk, his feet digging into the varnished wood. His dark head twisted to one side, as if regarding her in a new perspective. _Three more steps, _she thought, and did her best not to think of what that sharp beak might do to her if she was not quick enough or fortunate enough to prevent it. She ached to have something to hold in case it suddenly leapt for her throat.

"You need not fear me," the creature went on, as if reading her thoughts – which, no doubt, he probably had – only increasing her feeling of deja vu. "I will not harm you."

"You will forgive me if I do not take you at your word," Integral retorted sharply. "I somehow find it hard to trust creatures who attempt to subjugate my own will."

The being was not as surprised as she had thought he would be. Instead he merely straightened his head, and this time he leapt off the desk and landed on the floor with much scrabbling. Quickly he righted himself and actually began strutting towards her, his claws clicking upon the polished floor, those bright yellow eyes still never leaving her own.

One more step. One more step and the button would be under her finger. "What do you want of me?" she demanded in the meantime, as the eagle rapidly stalked closer.

"Merely to see you, and to confirm what has already been suspected of you," the bird replied glibly, as he stopped practically in front of her, his head tilted upwards to look at her own, his talons gleaming horribly in the soft light. "And to take away a token as my proof."

"I'm afraid not." Her finger jabbed down upon the button, at once triggering an alarm that she knew would be heard in Walter's quarters as well as in the barracks. With that done she swiftly made to dart away, but instead of helping her to run her legs somehow managed to collapse from underneath her instead, and she ended up rather painfully sprawled on the floor on her back.

_What the…? _She looked up through her bedraggled hair in time to see that wretched devil bird spread his wings, blotting out the light and casting her into shadow. If it were possible, she would say that he was actually smiling. Before she could even begin to try and get up he hopped forward onto her legs; it was as if an elephant had sat down on her, knocking the breath out of her. She sprawled backwards on the floor again, almost banging her head against the poker stand.

"Don't make this any more difficult than it has to be, Integra," the thing crooned softly, as he balanced on one leg, digging his talons through her trousers and into her skin, and reached out with the other one towards her face.

She certainly wasn't going to wait for _that._ Her right hand scrabbled for the stand, seized the nearest thing she could reach and pulled it out, and thrust it straight at the bird. In her confusion and pain her aim was uncharacteristically bad; she saw that she missed his breast completely and only grazed his side, just under his outstretched left wing.

She had an impression of sudden confusion in those horrid yellow eyes, and then the great weight on her legs and the pain from the talons was gone as a blast of air slammed her back against the mantelpiece. Her long hair was blown and buffeted about and over her face as she attempted to get a grip on the marble and pull herself up, and the screaming began, cutting into her like a blade stabbing again and again into her ears, like a giant child enraged and wounded. Her glasses were lopsided and thus she could not see properly out of her left eye but with her right, through the threshing mess of her hair and her tie, she could see a dark shifting figure only a little way away at the centre of what seemed to be a wind storm. It was not bird shaped any longer – it was hard to tell _what_ it was now, save that it was in pain and furious. Several somethings were being smashed by the tornado that appeared to have been let loose.

But Integral would not let herself be cowed, even now. Struggling and winning against the gale that shrieked around her, she pulled herself up onto her feet once more, anchoring herself so that she would not be blown over again. As loudly as she could she screamed into the winds that ripped at her face and hands and body, _"Leave my house at once! Get you gone! _Now!_"_

Once more she saw those yellow eyes staring at her, now narrowed and perhaps even afraid, afraid of _her_. Then they winked out of existence, and as they did so the wind abruptly stopped, and all was quiet once more.

Breathing deeply she straightened her glasses and then her tie with one hand, still holding on to the mantelpiece for support with the other, and looked around her office. The creature's temper tantrum had left it in a complete mess: there were books and pages from books scattered all over the floor, both her chair and desk had been overturned, the bullet proof glass of the windows had actually been shattered. Practically everything that could be broken had been broken, though thankfully her father's portrait still hung upon the wall, undamaged. The whole scene was dimly lit by the one remaining lamp that had managed to escape destruction, though it was a watery light indeed.

She shook her head, hardly knowing what to make of it all. She had barely scratched the thing, and with a poker at that. Surely that hadn't been enough to wound it, let alone make it react the way that it did? She looked down at the fire implement, still lying where she had dropped it upon the floor. It was a most unremarkable looking thing indeed, hardly what she would have imagined capable to drive off…whatever that thing had been…

Her mind worked quickly, remembering what she had been reading just before her encounter with the creature. The book said that the Púca was a shape-shifter, and capable of great destruction if it didn't get its own way. Looking around her once again at the mess the creature had left behind, and the memory of her dream of the horse with such peculiar eyes, the relevance dawned upon her.

_I may have been one of the few people to cross a Púca and actually get away with it. _The very thought that she might have encountered yet another reality behind a myth was enough to make her feel dizzy, if only slightly.

Running footsteps below her signified the approach of troops, just after the nick of time. But what really caught her attention was the wetness she was suddenly ware of, on her forehead. She reached up with her free hand to her hairline; her white fingers came away red, wet and sticky. Hastily she pulled off her glove and reached up again. This time her fingers felt a bleeding, open wound in her scalp, a spot where hair had evidently been torn out and some skin and flesh taken with it as well.

_He took my hair. That creature took my _hair.

_And I didn't feel a thing._

* * *

The trail of nothingness had run out, quite abruptly. Alucard had cast about for a scent, a hint, for anything, for ages now. He had scouted the countryside all around, and had now come full circle, back to where the source had originally broken off. But there was nothing, nothing, nothing. Even the oldest vampires could run short of patience, and Alucard had near exhausted his stock. 

Night had fallen properly while he had hunted, and as the moon shone down steadily upon him, he was aware of just how hungry he really was. Like a dog he had followed his master's wishes, and like a dog he was now famished.

_How hungry I am; how very hungry…_

When was the last time he had eaten? How long ago was it now? Certainly before he had gotten on the flight; and Integra had forbidden him to feed upon humans while he remained in Ireland. He would simply have to wait until he returned to England.

He made one last, half-hearted effort to locate the scent of the attacker again, though he doubted that he would be successful. Whatever it had been that had killed the guards, it had covered its tracks well.

As he relaxed unwillingly, his nose caught hint of another scent, far more enticing than a non-existent one. In the darkness, his eyes easily saw a shape huddling underneath a faraway hedge. A predator, afraid of a much more deadly carnivore. A cat, fairly domestic and clearly terrified, too terrified even to run from the monster it was transfixed by.

As he watched the animal coolly, content for the moment simply by frightening the beast, he could smell the blood racing through the creature's body, pumped by its frantic heartbeat. The smell was intoxicating as little else had been for him over the years.

When was the last time he had drunk warm blood?

When was the last time he had drunk living blood, from a living creature?

_Far too long ago, _he murmured to himself, as his thoughts were quite suddenly taken over by a bloodlust such as he had not experienced for decades.

He was hungry. He wanted this. He _needed _this.

He sprang forward before he could even think again, his coat flapping in the night breeze, his hat falling off in his leap, his hands outstretching and his nails pushing at the material of his gloves. The seals burned against his hunting instinct, but he did not heed the pain.

At last, in the face of this pure horror, the cat squeaked and tried to run, but by then it was far too late as his hands snatched it up. It mewled helplessly as fingers tightened, crushing bones, and then it screamed as his teeth pierced its neck. He pressed it closer to his mouth, the fur tickling his face and the contorting legs striking his arms, claws tearing, he swallowed and swallowed again as it slowly went limp in his grasp; wonderful, hot blood, sweet blood, animal blood…

_Animal blood?!_

With a sudden howl of rage and realization, he threw the cat's half drained body away from him, and spat fervently to rid his mouth of the dregs of the creature's blood. The redness vanished at once from his gloves and his mouth as he willed it, but he could not get the taste of it out of his mouth, hack and cough though he might. He regurgitated the blood he had already swallowed, every last drop of it, trying desperately to purge himself of the shameful act he had committed. If he had been capable of crying at all, then perhaps he would have cried now.

Animal blood…only the lowest vampires, entirely starved of human prey and ability, drank the blood of animals. He had come to that humiliating degradation a few times himself; he would not deny it – but never again. He had sworn, hundreds of years ago, that never again would he eat what humans survived upon; instead, humans would be his one and only food, and he had kept to that oath, staunchly, even when forced into servitude and slavery…until _now_.

Now, he was hungrier than he had felt in a hundred years, and thanks to Abraham van Helsing and his descendants, the only things available to quench his thirst were the animals, which he had sworn never to feed off again. Humans were no longer his lawful prey, by any means. The nearest he came to human blood was packaged and donated by hospital, long cold and dead.

He snarled, grinding his teeth as he brought up the last of that despicable, inadequate fluid he had so recently swallowed with such mindless fervor. That he, a No life King, had come to this state once again…

_Oh, what _wouldn't_ I give to drain you dry, my pretty little Integra…_

With an effort, he shook off that savage thought, as he picked his hat up again with a trembling hand. Thinking like that did him no good. He wanted Integra for himself, more than simply a good meal of delicious virgin blood. Draining would be far too soon, and _far _too easy.

He needed to find somewhere to think. _Properly._ Once again he banished his physical form, and began to search incorporeally for somewhere to gather his thoughts.

As the last of his shadows departed from the deeper shadow of the night, if anyone had been there to listen, they would perhaps have heard the faintest of sounds, like miniscule tinkling bells at the bottom of a well – the sound of laughter, high, perhaps even cruel.

But then, there was nothing there to hear the sound but a dead cat.

**

* * *

The _Cláirseach _****is a type of harp that used to be extremely popular in Ireland, up until the Middle Ages and a little while after that; its origins go back to at least the first millennia. One of the most unique traits it had was that, instead of having strings made from gut, it was strung with metal wire, such as iron, brass, silver or even gold. When Elizabethan troops took control of much of Ireland, harp playing was banned since it was seen as a method to rouse rebels, and many harpists were hanged and their instruments broken; but some harpists still managed to carry the craft on. One of these was Turlough O'Carolan (1670 – 1738), considered by many to be Ireland's national composer. Though he was blind after having suffered small pox and itinerant (he had no home and traveled all over the country) he is seen as the last of the great Irish harp-composers. His skills were so marvelous that there were stories he was given his musical abilities after sleeping on top of a faery mound.**

**The _Cláirseach _****is now making a comeback, and is once more traditionally made and strung with wire. Alan Stivell first brought the instrument back to attention, and since then musicians like Ann Heymann and Katie Targett-Adams have gradually made the world more aware of the harp****Also, the symbol of the harp is still used on the Guinness label, on Irish coins and on Irish passports, even to this day.**

**The Púca, while being a potentially dangerous creature, was also seen by some as beneficial. It was a creature of the mountains and hills, and there were often stories in such regions of it appearing on November the 1****st**** (the one day when it can be expected to behave civilly) and give warnings and advice to the people it meets. **

**

* * *

Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	9. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything in ****Hellsing**

**Yep. Here's another chapter. Don't throw things at me!**

* * *

Anderson sat practically hunched in a chair at the table, and watched Mrs. Hayes closely as the small woman walked calmly about the kitchen, stirring various things sizzling in pans on the hob. He could smell cooking meat of various kinds, and potatoes, and frying oil, all the dubious delights of an Irish fry-up. He could also catch the scent of the woman herself, a comforting mix of many smells…and therefore suspicious. Though he was a Regenerator, he wouldn't have lasted as long as he had – however long that was – without relying on his instincts along with his ability to heal practically anything that Life threw at him, and occasionally cut off.

And he could tell that there was something strange about Mrs. Mary Hayes, ever since she had walked into the upstairs room last night and forbade him from ending the life of the changeling. There was her smell, which was different from that of other humans, though not set apart from them. There was the way she moved around the small room, practiced and controlled, as if she had had centuries of experience instead of merely years. There was the authority in her voice that had persuaded him to leave off from sending the foul creature back to the abyss, if only for a time, simply to examine this mystery further. And there was…

…there was the scent of blood. He looked up sharply at that, in time to see her slicing pieces of some black object into a pan that was at the moment empty. She looked up at him and smiled, in a manner that he was far from comfortable with. With his long experience, he could tell that it was the smile of someone who had been discovered, but was certainly not caught out.

The last time he had seen such a smile, it had been on a very different face – a vampire's face on a head which had just reconnected with a foul body.

"D'you like black pudding, Father Anderson?" she was asking in the meantime. When he curtly shook his head she merely sighed, and went back to her slicing. "All the more for Miss Seras, then. Most likely she'll enjoy it, even if it _is _cooked."

The apparently careless words had not been lost on him, and he sat up at once, intrigued by this new stage in developments. He said nothing but waited for her next comment. When she spoke no more he asked, "And what else will you prepare for her, Mrs. Hayes? Will you give her nothing else?

"Nothing that she would care to eat, I'll wager, Father."

She had guessed, then, and guessed correctly at that. What a game this was turning out to be! "You know what she is, then?"

"The sharp teeth _were_ a giveaway." She blithely dropped the last piece into the pan, and turned the heat on under it. "Most likely others wouldn't notice, but I've learned to look for clues, after a while; things which tell more than their owner ever does. She was human at some point, that I know, but no more."

"And you would willingly let a servant of Hell enter this house?" There was curiosity in his mind as well as outrage; it was either a very brave or a very stupid person who greeted news of the presence of a vampire in their abode with apparently no fear.

She turned around partly to look at him at that, still stirring something expertly. "I've known many people classed as such by the Church, Father, whether it was of England or of Rome, who have as much grace and repentance as the saints themselves. And I've also known men and women both who called themselves servants of God, and were more suited to be employed by the Devil Himself. Patrick and Siobhan may allow whomsoever they like into their own house; it's no business of mine."

"So it's no business of yours if she begins to hunger for their blood, either?" He folded his arms and stared at her, trying to understand her. Did she actually have any regard for the young couple at all, or was she simply watching the show and enjoying it, like that depraved reporter Hellsing had finished off months ago?

"Patrick looked perfectly fine and no paler than he usually does these days when he went out this morning," she replied calmly. "And Miss Seras has been asleep since dawn. You're insulting her, in any case; I highly doubt that she'd harm anyone willingly. If I thought that she was dangerous, d'you think I'd be making black pudding for her?" She picked up one of the kitchen instruments and placed several items from the pans onto a plate hot from what he believed was the microwave – he rarely cooked food himself, since in Vatican City it was always made for him and when he was on missions he bought things already prepared, whether hot or cold.

Having done all this, she turned to look at him calmly. "I'll be in the living room for a few minutes, with Siobhan. Would you watch the pans to make sure that nothing burns?" And she actually didn't move until he at last gave in and got up and lumbered over to the hob, bending his head because the ceiling was so low. Then she just _smiled_ at him, and trotted out of the door and into the passage beyond it.

He stood uneasily stirring the sausages and black pudding and white pudding and potatoes whenever it looked as if they might be burning, though admittedly it was hard to tell with black pudding. This was somehow…familiar, these smells, these sounds, although he could not tell where he remembered them. Not for the first time, he wondered where exactly such memories could possibly come from, and mourned the fact that he would probably never know. Everything had a price in this world, save for the love of God, and the price of relative immortality was the loss of who you had been.

A creak from the doorway that an ordinary human wouldn't have heard warned him that the vampire girl was up and about at last, no doubt thanks to the dying light.

"Umm…" was her intelligent comment. He didn't provide her with the comfort of turning around, however impolite it might have been on his part. She struggled on regardless. "How was your night?"

_As pleasant as it could be, with a __Draculina__ downstairs and a changeling in the next room, and both still living. _"Tolerable," he ground out as he jabbed a sausage with the spatula. He hadn't actually slept – he rarely needed to any longer – but the presence of both the creatures had been jarring on his senses, meaning that he had been restless for much of the night.

"Oh. Good. Where's Bernadette?" He turned around at last with a grin at the sudden suspicion in her voice, as if she half-thought him to have disposed of the French mercenary while she hid away from the sun in the ground floor guest bedroom, having been placed there by Bernadette when she had at last dozed off. She was showing rather more skin now than she had last night, as she carried her heavy jumper in her hand and was wearing a top that covered her breasts and little else, it would seem.

"He made a call on your mobile phone this morning, and then he went out with Patrick MacMohen at midday. They have not returned yet."

"Oh." He fancied that he could still see the scar on her pale skin that he had made some months before, when he had thrust one of his bayonets through her neck. She obviously sensed where his gaze was directed, and shot him a rather impressive glare before she pulled the jumper back over her head and struggled into it, only speaking when it was snugly set on her frame once more. "Did they say where they were going, by any chance?"

"Mr. Bernadette said something about seeing the sights." Mrs. Hayes was back again, with an empty tray and a warm smile still upon her face, no doubt more for the vampire's benefit than his. "So Patrick offered to drive him into Killarney." He heard the Draculina make a muttered comment about _pubs_ with another scowl forming on her face, which quickly gave way to panic as the older woman took hold of her arm. "It's good that you're up, we were just about to eat. I've already given Siobhan her dinner. Sit down now, I'll get you yours."

The vampire threw him a look that was amusingly pleading. Surely she didn't expect to receive any help from that quarter? "I'm not actually feeling that hungry, Mrs. Hayes."

"You've been asleep for most of the day, and your stomach's most likely empty. You need to get some food into you." Mrs. Hayes motioned her towards the table and marched over to the hob, batting him out of the way as she shoveled much of the contents of one particular pan onto a plate. The vampire hadn't moved, still staring as the plate reached the table and was set before her, complete with a knife and fork.

"Black pudding!" she breathed. And then she _did _move, pulling out a chair and sitting down and seizing the cutlery and beginning to eat. He had rarely seen anything – or at least, anything human – consume food as rapaciously as this creature. It was entertainment in itself. He was hardly aware of receiving his own plate, he was so morbidly fascinated at the sight of her feeding. He wondered idly if this was the manner in which all vampires fed, greedily and without restraint, before he remembered himself and looked away, furious that his gaze had been caught and held by such a sight.

The fingers of his right hand itched to hold one of his sabers instead of a fork. He made do with sinking the instrument into one of his own pieces of black pudding; he was already letting the rich solid crumble across his tongue when he heard the front door slam. They were back, then. He'd heard the rumble of the car, but had chosen to ignore it until it became important.

"We're back!"Mr. MacMohan called, rather unnecessarily, and Anderson could hear him walking along the corridor to the living room while Bernadette appeared in the doorway, a grin spread across his face, and that grin only widened at the sight of the Draculina with her mouth full near to bursting.

"_Bonjour, mignonette!_ Or _bon __soir_I should say-"

"Not one word, Bernadette, or I'll make you regret that you took my jumper off," the vampire growled as soon as she had swallowed her large mouthful, standing up. "And what on earth do you mean by swanning off for the day and leaving _me_ alone in the house with Anderson?" She brandished her fork at the mercenary, who suddenly wasn't looking so happy.

"Hey, it's not like you were alone. There was Mrs. Hayes."

The vampire sucked in a breath that she didn't need, but before she could begin yelling both the MacMohans walked in together, Siobhan still holding her plate of food and Patrick's arm about her. The poor child looked as weary and drained as she had last night, but at least she could manage a smile for her husband as he set her down carefully in a chair.

"I thought that everyone should hear this," Patrick said, as he straightened. If it were possible, he looked even more drained than before. "There's been some trouble in the area. One of the lodgers at Tim O'Donohue's farm went missing yesterday morning, we found out, and late last night the garda found him further down the river. He'd been mauled horribly, but they think he probably drowned."

"Mauled?" His wife looked horrified. "You mean the dogs attacked him?"

"Well, that's the strange thing – Tim keeps collies for helping with the sheep," he added for the obvious benefit of those not familiar with the farmer. "All the dogs were shut up in the house when he went out at seven yesterday morning; there were bite marks plenty on him but they were all much too big to have been made by any of them. The garda said the bites looked as if they'd been made by a creature the size of a horse, at least."

"So we have some strange flesh eating horse running around the countryside as well?" Mrs. Hayes didn't sound as alarmed as she might have. "Did you hear this in the pub?"

"It was in the local newspaper, as a matter of fact, Mary. And I thought you might want to know, we dropped into the pharmacy as well, and Mrs. O'Conner was off sick. Sinead's gone missing."

"Sorry." The vampire cut in at this point, her face wrinkled in confusion. "What exactly are you talking about?"

"The O'Connor family runs a pharmacy on Killarney high street," Siobhan explained patiently. "We all know them quite well. Their eldest daughter Sinead played-" She checked herself with some confusion, and went on, "-_plays _the _clàrsach_ harp. She's very good at it. About a month or two ago she moved to Cork to start up in the music business." She looked over at Patrick, biting her lip. "What happened?"

"Apparently she was driving home late last night from a wedding reception out in the country. Her car broke down, so she called the break down services and told them where she was. It took them about twenty minutes to get there, and when they found the car the headlights were on and the radio was playing, but there was no trace of Sinead. Just her handbag on the driver's seat, and her harp was gone."

"What would anyone want with a girl who played the harp?" the Draculina asked. He could see the mercenary's grin even at the very edge of his vision, but before he made a comment that would most likely end in his castration by his enraged comrade Mrs. Hayes dumped some of the cooking utensils in the sink with a loud clatter.

Anderson looked over at her, and decided at once that he would be going out as soon as he had finished being polite and had eaten his food.

And, however little he liked it, the Draculina and her French side-kick would not be likely to let him go alone.

* * *

One relatively short jeep drive, a hike down the gravel path of the hill and wood on property that was almost certainly private, and a sticky slog along the river bank later, battling their way through several fences on the way, and Pip was understandably in a less than good mood. Who would have thought that an Irish river bank bore remarkable resemblance to a jungle in Borneo? There had been a shower of rain earlier, and so everything was wet, or at least damp, and if the moon hadn't been shining above them he wouldn't have the faintest idea what he was stepping in. Of course the priest hadn't seen fit to bring along a torch, wishing to avoid attracting unwanted attention, ignoring the fact that at least one of the party didn't have night vision in their remaining eye.

And whenever he had stepped into a hole full of water, he had the distinct suspicion that Seras was laughing at him, however quietly.

"You _sure _this is where they found the body?" he asked now, looking at the break in the trees where the bank was lower – a salmon hole, he thought it was called, because the water was far deeper here than in other places - and trying not to show skepticism that he didn't think would be appreciated by the other two. "We don't have to walk any further, do we?"

"Yes." Anderson didn't even look at him as he spoke. _Rude __old geezer._

"_Yes, _this is where they found the body, or _yes, _we will have to walk further? Be specific, _mon__ami__."_

The priest turned to glare at him, and he heard Seras mutter not to push his luck, before adding in a louder voice, "Anderson's right, Bernadette. A body did wash up here, I can smell that it did."

"What – all the way from yesterday night?" The little _belle_ could give sniffer dogs a run for their money, if that was the case. He had to stop himself thinking about the police girl on all floors like a wolf and sniffing the ground – and other things. It was just too funny, and also a bit of a turn on that he didn't need at the moment.

Seras nodded in the meantime, the moonlight tracing across her heart shaped face. "The body was rather _strong_ when it was found, so yes, I can still smell it, or at least trace the smell that it left behind it. It left traces on that tree trunk and its roots." She pointed to the subject in question; a tree perched right on the edge of the bank, with some roots dipping into the water. It made sense that the body might be washed up and caught against them; dead bodies travelling in a current could get caught on the smallest things, as he knew well.

_"Bien._Ok. So we've found where the body turned up. So, might I just repeat the question I believe I asked about twenty minutes ago, back when my trousers were still nice and dry – _what _are we doing here?"

Seras shrugged her little shoulders, her chest heaving most interestingly. "You'll have to ask Anderson about that. I'm just here to make sure he doesn't stick a saber into anything other than a wire fence."

He tried not to let his feelings show – with great difficulty – as he turned back to the shape of the large priest. "Anderson?" he asked, not very enthusiastically. He didn't have much hope of getting a straight answer; the guy hadn't even revealed he'd come to the country to murder a baby that wasn't really a baby until he'd been standing over the crib with a rather sharp blade in his hand. Still, it was worth a try. "Anderson? Why'd you come here? And make such a fuss about secrecy, might I add?"

The priest was looking out at the river, his blue eyes narrowed behind his glasses and one hand half reached inside his coat. "There is something out there, mercenary. Something killed that man, and it was not human. Nay, not a vampire either." Here he shot a glance at Seras, who stared coolly back at him, before looking back out over the water. "Something lurks beneath these waters – something that has killed out of vengeance, and will kill again."

"What do you mean?" Seras had crouched down by the tree, but was looking up at him with interest, if not altogether believing. Pip was surprised that she didn't keel over, she must be so top heavy. "What do you think it is?"

"I am not certain." Anderson shook his head, perhaps to reinforce his point. "But whatever it is, I know that it is somehow connected with the changeling. I have known it, ever since I heard of the man's death. Such things have not happened for many years in this land, but now they are happening again." Anderson turned to look at the two of them, standing next to the tree that the dead man had been washed up against. "I…believe…that something is waking up once more."

And that, of course, was the moment when the horse's head burst through the water and yanked Seras into the river by her arm.

* * *

Even in daylight, the water would probably have been clouded and murky. Now, at night and with hardly any light, it was terrifying, even if lack of oxygen was no longer a problem for her. It didn't help that her head immediately started playing the theme tune from Jaws, as she desperately punched at whatever was dragging her down and sinking its teeth into her elbow. On land her strength would probably have broken the creature's jaw; in the water it made contact but didn't seem to bother it. It was shaking her violently, so hard she could actually _feel _her skin and flesh beginning to rip. The watered down moonlight shone upon sharp white teeth and upon a pair of yellow eyes that glared at her through the murk, as the thing continued to shake its head, tearing her flesh off her bones.

She certainly wasn't going to wait for _that. _She kicked out at what she could see of the strange animal's pale body, and she heard a crunch muffled by the water as her foot met with the creature's ribs. That seemed to do the trick; the grip on her elbow was gone, and so were the yellow eyes, leaving only a cloud of her own blood to mask its retreat. How far down was she? Her arm was really beginning to hurt. She could see light above her. Her feet met the silt of the riverbed and she kicked off from it, heading for the surface, moving her damaged arm as best she could.

_Come on, come on, __kick__, kick-_

Something seized hold of her right leg and pulled her back, announcing itself with another burst of pain. She looked down in alarm, and the moonlight that flowed down from above the water showed her for the first time what exactly her attacker was; some sort of nightmare horse, its teeth sunk firmly into her ankle and the yellow orbs that passed for eyes shining with hat could only be malice.

At any other time she would at least have stared, but now she only brought her free foot sharply down on the horse's head, aiming for its eyes. Again and again she kicked it, trying to break free, paddling the water with her arms, shaking her trapped leg. Her own blood was clouding the water and her vision. She had to get to the surface, or this thing would try to rip her apart. While she wasn't sure if that would kill her, she didn't really want to test the theory out.

The pain went from her ankle, only to latch on to her knee. The horse was pulling her back down towards it! That did it; she waved her hands desperately, wafting the blood away, and then she lunged forward. The horse - evidently not used to having its prey still struggling at this point – only blinked and didn't dodge, and so it was almost pathetically easy for her to jam her fingers of her right hand into one of its eyes.

At once her knee was released as the creature fell away in a cloud of – green? Was she seeing things rightly? She didn't stop to wonder as she struggled for the surface.

Her arms broke the water before her head and already they were being pulled roughly by one pair of hands at her wrists, another pair at her elbows. She slammed against the dirty bank and was dragged up it, spewing out water as she went, expecting at any moment to feel that sharp pain in her legs again. But at last she was out, on her hands and knees on the bank. Her arms trembled, and she felt as if she might keel over.

"_Merde_," Bernadette breathed from above her. She could still feel his hands on her arms, steadying her. Strangely, she didn't mind it so much. "I mean, _merde_. What the hell was that thing, some kind of mutant?"

"Much older than that, Bernadette." Anderson was standing over them both. "But I think that-"

Whatever Anderson thought was forever lost as Bernadette's voice suddenly yelled right in her ear _"Con!" _and his hands yanked her sideways. The ground disappeared and she landed hard on her back and was looking up at the sky and the branches and something that might have been Bernadette's braid, and then her back left the ground and a leather jacket filled her vision, and this went on until her shoulder slammed into something that felt like a tree trunk and her knees hit the ground and stopped her, or them, from moving any further.

She forced herself upright and looked down to see what she had been lying on that felt rather soft, and her eyes met Bernadette's lonely green one as he stared up at her, rather winded, his bloody hands still on her bloody arms, her knees on either side of his waist. _Oh, God. I'm practically straddling him._ She could feel his warmth spreading through her, and hear his heartbeat. She could especially feel the heat where her pelvis rested upon his. And his smell was more evident than ever – and, unfortunately, just as good.

A noise to her right distracted her form this extremely awkward situation. That wretched horse had forced its dripping way up onto the bank and was snapping and kicking at Anderson, who had pulled out two of his many bayonets and was jabbing at it, avoiding the flailing legs and ripping teeth. Blood was pouring from the eye that she had punctured, blood which didn't look any less green in the air, and the same green was oozing from several cuts along its flanks, though they didn't seem to have slowed it down in the slightest. In fact they appeared to be healing as quickly as Anderson was inflicting them, and the horse was steadily driving the priest backwards, towards where they lay. It was a formidable warrior, besting many of the Regenerators attacks and disregarding the others. No matter what he did, he could not stop it. As she watched in morbid fascination Anderson took his chance, and darted forward and plunged one bayonet straight into the creature's chest, and the other straight through its neck. She winced in memory.

The horse had stopped moving as soon as the blades had bitten into its flesh, but it didn't seem to be in pain. Rather, it appeared to be amused. The corners of its mouth actually curled up, showing its fangs to gruesome effect. If it were possible, Seras would have said the creature was about to chuckle.

It didn't, of course. What it did do was rear up and kick Anderson squarely in the chest. Even a Regenerator couldn't ignore a blow like that, apparently, as the priest was flung back and landed hard against a tree. And then the horse turned to look at them with its remaining eye.

_"__Merde__," _Pip said from somewhere underneath her. _It_ _seems to be his word of the day._Quickly she pushed herself off him and to her feet and braced herself for the fight which she knew must come. A weapon, she had to find a weapon other than her fists, but there was no time to do anything but swing out at the beast with the hand on her good arm, the one she had poked its eye out with. More from luck than anything her clenched fingers smashed into the creature's head; there was a satisfying crunch, but also a hiss underlying the thing's howl. It was a sound she knew well, a sound she associated with the times when her flesh into contact with silver, the metal that vampires could not bear to come in contact with. But Anderson's bayonets were silver, and the horse didn't even seem to notice them. Why then did it react in such a way?

It was staggering backwards now, since her blow appeared to have dazed it. She could see a mark upon the side of its white head where she had hit it – an actual burn mark, in the shape of a tiny cross.

She looked down at the fingers of her right hand, at the ring she wore on her ring finger to make up for the band she would never wear on the corresponding finger on her left hand. It had been a present from Sir Integral, for her good work at the Tower of London, though the joke was that though it looked like a signet ring it wasn't made of some precious metal like gold, but was made of…

…_it's made of iron._

She looked up, and she met the horse's yellow eye and the one that stubbornly refused to heal when all the others cuts on its body had long since closed up, the eye that had been wounded by the finger that wore iron. It knew, she could see. It was an animal, but it was more than that as well. It knew that she knew. But would it stay, or would it run?

That question was very quickly settled when Anderson entered abruptly from stage right, roaring like an animal himself and wielding _four_ more bayonets between his huge fingers. The horse was very quickly thrown onto its side and rapidly pinned into the earth by the blades Anderson thrust into its body, like a butterfly skewered in a collection; yet even as Anderson pushed himself off the white body it was struggling and hissing, fighting to pull itself free.

"It's still not dead?" Bernadette, behind her, had apparently pulled himself up. _"__Dieu_what will it take to get it to die?"

"It is a foul fiend, and yet it is immune to blessed silver." Anderson sounded baffled, perhaps the first time he had been so in her presence, as he stared down at the creature that still battled against his weapons of choice. "This is wrong. This cannot be."

She shook her head at the simplicity of it all. Anderson was the one who was wrong. "It is true. Silver doesn't affect it. I don't think most weapons do. But it _is _vulnerable to this." She went down on one knee, and held her right hand close to the creature's flank, far away from the snapping head, the ring touching the skin. As she expected the horse shrieked and writhed, trying desperately to get away from the touch of the iron that would always be cold against her skin.

She looked up at the two men triumphantly. "It can be harmed by iron, don't you see? Iron does something to it. I stuck this ring in its eye, and it stopped the eye from healing-" She stopped abruptly, as a new thought came to her.

_If its blood is green…_

"Anderson, would you hold its head down?" she asked quickly. "I want to test something." The priest stared at her, before walking over to the horse's head and forcing it down roughly with his foot, pushing it into the ground as it screamed and spat. Quickly Seras reached forward and, ignoring that part of her mind which still revolted at such things after all this time, dipped her fingers into the green ooze that still flowed from the creature's ruined eye. A lick at the tips of her wet fingers confirmed what she had guessed, as she had hoped so. Silently she thanked Alucard for that taste of his blood.

"There's no iron in the blood," she announced, wiping her hand on the ground. "No trace of it."

"How'd you know?" Bernadette sounded as if he were trying not to sound revolted, and was doing quite well. She didn't dare look at Anderson, but she fancied she could feel the force of his scorn and disgust.

"I can tell," was all she said. "And I'll tell you something else, too. There's a lot of iron in blood – in normal blood, at any rate. But here, instead of the iron, there's copper. That's what makes the blood green instead of red. There's only supposed to be a small amount in the bloodstream at any one time, but here it's practically taken the place of the iron. So either this thing _is _a mutant – or it's not from this world at all."

**

* * *

One of the best things about holidaying in Ireland is the Irish breakfasts. They're a carnivore's ****dream,**** and its best when there's lots of you and lots of cooking stuff. Also, Irish sausages are in the running for greatest sausages in the world.**

**'Con' is a rude French word. I will say no more (except that I wanted Pip to show some variety and not be yelling the French equivalent of 'shit!' all the time.)**

**And if you're clued up on your knowledge of the fairies, you'll recognize some important knowledge here. (Also if you're a Star Trek fan and know a lot about ****Vulcans.)**

**

* * *

Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	10. Chapter Nine

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything concerning ****Hellsing**

* * *

The extract had come through his door that very morning, in an envelope made of something resembling parchment. That was all it was; two extracts from Lady Gregory's _Cuchulain__ of __Muirthemne, _with some words scrawled underneath:

**Then ****Aoife**** gave him the arms of a champion, and bade him go to Ireland, but first she laid three commands on him: the first never to give way to any living person, but to die sooner than be made turn back; the second, not to refuse a challenge from the greatest champion alive, but to fight him at all risks, even if he was sure to lose his life; the third, not to tell his name on any account, though he might be threatened with death for hiding it. She put him under _geasa,_ ****that is, under bonds, not to do these things…**

**And ****Cuchulain**** said: "It is a pity your mother not to be here to see you brought down. She might have stretched out her hand to stop the spear that wounded you." And ****Conlaoch**** said: "My curse ****be**** on my mother, for it was she put me under bonds; it was she sent me here to try my strength against yours."**

**And ****Cuchulain**** said,****My curse be on your mother, the woman that is full of treachery; it is through her harmful thoughts these tears have been brought on us."**

Underneath were the simple words, drawn out in runic letters, _Which matters more, Collum, the blood of Hellsing or the words of Helen? Bring us the former, since you were bound by the latter. The Children of the Goddess require the Daughter of the Goddess_.

Helen had been his mother's name. Thirty-two years later, he remembered what she had said partly as a joke, but with some warning in her voice, when she had read to him from books of fairytales from her homelandon rainy days in the school holidays. She had said that he must do nothing to cross them, superstitious woman that she was; _nothing,_ or it would be the end of him. Her words had stayed with him, even when she had died suddenly and abruptly a few days after he had gained his entrance into university, from a stroke…or so qualified doctors said. The look of abject fear on her face had certainly made him think otherwise, but he had been young then.

Well, he was older now. Even when she was dead, his mother's words held him in thrall, and all his fears came back again.

As he read Lady Gregory's words again, Collum knew that whatever he chose to do now, he was a dead man.

* * *

Although Integral could not feel the pain that surely accompanied the needle that Trevallion was using to sew the skin of her wound back together, she could still feel the movement of the implement against the small amount of scalp that the doctor had shaved off, and it was far from pleasant. Despite Trevallion's skill, she was positive that this was surely one of the most uncomfortable things that she had ever endured, next to having Walter pry pieces of glass out of her hands when she was fourteen – she supposed it was some sort of poetic justice for smashing a decanter against a table in a fit of temper. Closing her eyes and thinking of England might be one way of getting through a wedding night, but it was hardly an option here.

She settled with looking at the bookcase beyond Trevallion's chest leaning over her, a dark and solid construction, as was much of the furniture in her private reading room, which was where she had chosen to have her head sewn up again. She listened to the faint hum of the light that shone down from above her on Trevallion's task, and to the sound of Walter breathing as he stood behind her chair, and to the sounds within her own body. She concentrated on the feel of having her hair pulled back and out of the way by a hastily commandeered Alice band, and the press of her suit against her back and her legs, and the hardness of the wood she could still feel through her gloves.

Instead of thinking of England she thought of Ireland. She thought of what Bernadette had told her, of the being that Anderson had called a changeling. She thought of his phone call at about three o'clock, telling her about the death of that tourist in suspicious circumstances, and the disappearance of a young woman.

She tried not to think that Sinead's disappearance, and the situation surrounding it, bore a disturbing resemblance to the dream she had had last night. A harpist on a lonely country road, spirited away, leaving behind her car and her personal belongings, but taking her instrument…if it was a coincidence, leaving out the matter of the demonic looking horse, it was a very convenient one. Integral did not like to rely upon, doubt or otherwise be troubled by her dreams. Dreams could not be trusted.

She thought of what Seras and the mercenary might be doing now. Her stomach rumbled. She was surprised to find that she was feeling hungry. Had she eaten anything today?

"Are you nearly done?" she asked at last, doing her best not to sound petulant.

"Just about, Sir Integral. Be patient."

"And by the way, while you're here, you might as well take the blood sample. It saves you coming back tomorrow."

She couldn't see the doctor's face, but she could hear the frown in his voice. "I hardly think it's an opportune time to take your blood, Sir Integral.

"On the contrary, it's a perfect time. You're making far too many home calls for my liking these days, Trevallion."

"Well, hopefully after this they'll be for less serious reasons than sutures," the doctor replied slowly, his hands never ceasing to move out of her line of sight. She felt the smallest of tugs in her scalp, and had to work hard not to squirm where she sat. She heard the sound of scissor blades, and the tug was gone. "There, that should do it. Now, be careful while washing, otherwise you might tear them by accident. Keep the area clean, and-"

"I _have_ had sutures before now, Trevallion. I know not to touch." She was joking, but she could see Trevallion's frown and decided to play along. "I will be careful, doctor. Heaven forbid you need to be called back to stitch me together once more."

"Heaven forbid indeed." Trevallion had by now dropped the needle and the remnants of the thread into a sterile bag and was pulling off his first pair of gloves to put another pair on. She closed her eyes and focused on rolling up her left shirt sleeve; she had seen the preparation of the syringe many times before, and it wasn't a particularly inspiring sight.

"Are you ready, Sir Integral?"

"Of course, doctor. Do it." Integral watched the needle pierce the skin of her arm with a certain weary resignation, and the chamber of Trevallion's syringe begin to fill with the familiar deep redness, going through the same routine that she endured twice per year. Walter watched the procedure as narrowly as she did, as if afraid that Trevallion would spill even one drop of her apparently precious blood on the carpet of her study.

Paradoxically, blood was as important to the survival of Hellsing as it was to the two vampires attached to it - Integral needed to keep Alucard bound to her by a sanguine contract, and the healthier the vital component was, the better. At the same time, it was vital that the doctors in service to the organization check constantly for any signs of the hereditary blood disease that had killed the knight's mother in her late twenties, when her daughter was barely seven. The price for being the 'Virgin of the Order' was that she kept her body as pure as possible, as well as her blood.

_It all comes down to blood, in the end…_

It was curious; when she was younger, a mere child, she would have moaned at the pain of the needle's entry and exit from her body, yet now she would barely have even felt such a minuscule wound had she not been partially numbed from the local anesthetic Trevallion had given her. She knew what real wounds were; she still had stitches in her throat and stomach to testify to that, which still pained her faintly when she moved too harshly. There were times when she longed to have her walking stick back, though of course she would never admit it.

"How do you feel, Sir Integral?" She roused herself to smile up at Trevallion; he was one of the very few who had the right to address her by name, even if the honorific was still used. Since her knighthood, practically nobody called her only Integral…except, on occasion, her vampiric servant, whether to vex her or to woo her in his own twisted manner.

"Relatively well, doctor, all things considered. How do you think that my blood will look this time?"

"I'm certain it will look as good as always, all things considered, including your little indulgences." He definitely sounded testy now, as he pulled out the needle and quickly dabbed the point of entry with cotton wool. She knew what this was about: all of her doctors nagged her incessantly to stop smoking, protesting the ill effects that it would have upon her health. She had somehow never decided to tell them that she rarely if ever actually inhaled the smoke and would simply hold it in her mouth, savoring the taste of it; she would not pollute her blood and lungs any further than they might already be. She looked up at Walter now where he stood beside her and she was certain she saw his mouth curl and his eyes crease. He knew all about her habit that was not a habit, for he had spent some time teaching her the technique when she first started; the foundation of the lessons being that if he couldn't stop her from smoking outright, at least she would be doing it in a manner which caused the least harm to herself.

"Trevallion, I do not believe this is the time or the place to be discussing my partiality for cigars." As soon as his fingers had pressed a bandage over the sterilized pinprick, she pulled her arm away from his, rolling her sleeve back down and standing up. "Do you have enough blood?"

The doctor looked up from where he was transferring the contents of the syringe into a clean glass bottle. "This should be more than enough, Sir Integral, but you shouldn't be walking about at once. I always tell you-"

"And I never listen," she cut in calmly, as she took her jacket from Walter and put it on. "Let me not keep you any further on your last house call, doctor. I'm sure that you're eager to get home after depositing my blood."

Trevallion's eye brows rose in amusement. Others might have taken offence at her tone, but he had been treating her since she was a little girl and he knew her moods almost as well as Walter. "I take it that your latest venture is not going as well as could be hoped? Is Iscariot bothering you again?"

She waved her hand impatiently. "No, no. It's research that I'm doing. My findings are becoming something of a pain." _Especially when they turn up in the middle of the night, smash my windows and steal my hair and part of my scalp._

Her doctor nodded, and quickly packed up the rest of his instruments. He picked up his coat his bag, and then turned to Integral and smiled in farewell, bowing his head slightly as he always did.

"Good night, Sir Integral. May God and Her Majesty be with you."

"And with you, Dr. Trevallion."

Walter coughed as the doctor exited the room, gesturing towards the desk on which the telephone from her office had been set up. "Sir Integral, there is a call from Officer Victoria. I put her on hold while Trevallion attended to you; I did not think that you would wish to be disturbed."

"Good thinking, Walter." No, it would certainly not do to have a phone conversation while her blood was extracted. Trevallion was one of the best, or he would not have been her doctor and one of the medical investigators of Hellsing, and she trusted him implicitly, but it would not do to casually discuss the status of a mission in front of him, especially when he was darning her scalp.

* * *

Collum Trevallion sat back in the seat of the car as the driver closed the door. One of the many advantages of being employed by an English knight was that you never had to drive to appointments with them; they would always send a car for you.

It would make what would happen all that much easier. Better that he was not driving. They would come to take it soon, he knew. Why they wanted Sir Integral's blood he could not fathom – their kind never could stomach blood - but want it they did. They would come for it, to take it from him. They knew just as well that he would not give it to them, and what would happen to him as a result of it. But of course, they did not care about that. All they cared about was what his mother had told him in the family living room, when he had been ten and curious about his Irish heritage. All that mattered to them concerning him was that his mother had told him that, if he wished to live a long life, he should never cross them. Essentially bound by honor to obey them when still only a child, however unwittingly, they had been waiting to make the best use of him. And what better use was there than being in the employ of a knight; and more than that, her doctor?

His hands clasped his knees. He tried to stop them from trembling. He would not be afraid.

Now he was caught. Thanks to his mother's ill fated words he knew that he couldn't disobey them, but neither could he betray Sir Integral's trust. He had sworn his loyalty to her and her alone. She was in danger, but he would not add to that danger willingly. He would do his best to warn her with his death, rather than complying with each new order as it came, working against her further and further. It was only blood now, but what might they desire next? He could not place the knight in such danger, or tear himself apart over his conflicting loyalties. The letter was in his bag, with the extracts and words he had been sent, and hopefully it would be taken to her when he was found and she could find out something of what she was up against. She needed to know what her foes were.

Collum sat back in his seat, and thought briefly – only very briefly. He had no reason to regret all the things that he had done in his life. He had served a good cause, he had tended to two generations of the Hellsing family and he had felt pride in their trust. A fine way to repay that trust, but it could not be helped. His life would be over soon. He had been doomed from the moment his mother had foolishly promised his services to the Shining Ones.

He could hear laughter in his ears now, very faint, that was not his.

They _were_ a merry folk.

* * *

Integral blinked once or twice, before replying to what she had heard. "A horse."

"Yes, Sir Integral."

"An aquatic, carnivorous horse, that drags people into a river and rips them to pieces," she repeated flatly, exchanging glances with Walter. Stoic that he often was, he now looked as baffled as she secretly felt.

"Yes, Sir Integral. It seems more at home in water than on the land."

"It _seems?_ You mean that it's still alive? You didn't kill it?" She sometimes had some doubts of Seras's capability, taking into consideration her soft hearted nature, but was she really _that_ incompetent?

"No, sir." Seras sounded exhausted on the other end of the line. "We thought it was best to find out more about it, rather than just killing it. We've found a way to subdue it, and we're bringing it back to where we're staying. I think we should examine it further."

"A good idea, as long as you manage to keep it secured." Strangely, the more she spoke about it, the less ridiculous the topic became. After all, she had had her study wrecked by a shape-shifter only last night, which had left its mark in more way than one. And speaking of that… "What does this demon horse look like, Seras?"

"Well, it's white, sir, and it has a very long mane and tail. Sharp teeth as well; believe me, I should know. And its eyes are bright yellow. Why do you want to know, sir?"

"Just a theory I have. I might have some idea of what it is." Perhaps it was cryptic, but she didn't feel this was the time to start jumping to conclusions. Making assumptions had cost her dearly in the past, after all. "You are all unharmed? Even the priest?"

"His pride took a bit of a knock, but he's still alive, with all his bits and pieces working. Bernadette's fine as well. My shoulder's been better, but it's healed already."

"Good. I am glad to hear it. Then I wish you the best of luck, Seras Victoria. Remember to call tomorrow, will you?"

"Most likely Bernadette will do it, but I'll remind him to." Seras's voice lowered. "You don't sound very well, Sir Integral. Are _you_ all right?"

Integral could not help but chuckle. What a sweet person Seras must have been while she was alive, if she was able to carry all this concern over into her un-life! "I'm perfectly all right, Seras. You be careful with that creature you've captured. May God and Her Majesty be with you."

"Goodnight, Sir Integral."

Her hand was already reaching for the omnibus she had been perusing when her unwanted visitor had burst in. In doing so she caught Walter's eye, and saw his disapproval. "What? You think that I should have told her about my own little matter here? I am her employer, she is my employee; I have no reason to give her information in kind. And besides, what would I say? 'Congratulations, I believe you've just captured a mythological Irish water demon?'"

"Do _you_ believe that what they have is a demon, Sir Integral?"

"Ever heard of a kelpie?" She paused for her words to sink in, before continuing. "A spirit common in Ireland and Scotland. A shape-shifter, its most preferred form is that of a white horse with a long mane and tail, sometimes made of weed, with yellow eyes. It tempts the unwary into climbing onto its back, and once the unfortunate passenger is seated it dives into its water source and devours them, letting the remnants float to the surface. Does it sound familiar?"

"I admit that there is some resemblance, Sir Integral." Her butler now sounded the faintest bit irritated, perhaps at being proved wrong.

"The discovery of a changeling. A púca attacks me last night. Seras and company find a kelpie tonight. Much as I hate to admit it, I believe that they are all connected in some manner. Can't you see, Walter? They're all elements of Irish fairy tales, all taking place in the modern world. Either something is trying to revive the good old days…or something from those good old days is back."

Whatever Walter was about to say was lost in the ring of the bell that generally meant someone was at the front door. He frowned, and instead bowed himself out to see who the visitor was with a murmur of apology, giving Integral the chance to dwell, for the first time that day, on another important matter.

Which was this: where the hell was Alucard? Seras and Bernadette together had contacted her four times since they had arrived in the country; Alucard, who at this distance didn't even need to use a phone to talk to her, preferring to slip into her mind, hadn't said so much as a word. She knew that nothing had happened to him – she would have felt it if such was the case – but this persistent silence on his part was disconcerting. Why was he neglecting…no, refusing to make contact? If he had his reasons, she could not fathom them.

If he would not be the one to contact her, she would contact him. As the vampire had taught her, she closed her eyes and focused all her mind upon his name, sending it like an arrowhead out into the world, hopefully flying straight to wherever he was.

_Alucard?_

There was no answer to her call, no intrusion into the darkness behind her lids. She folded her arms in annoyance, and repeated her mental action. _Alucard?_

There was success this time, if only a very minor one; there was a faint resistance to her mental voice, as if she had blown on a dying fire and in turn received a small glow, oxygen fueling heat. She expertly pinpointed where this glow came from, from whatever far distance there was in the blackness in front of her, and jabbed out. _Alucard! Report!_

The response nearly knocked her out of her seat.

**_Hellsing's get!_ **The voice that snarled into her head without passing by way of her ears was nothing like the Alucard of today, no matter how filled with blood-frenzy he might be, but was instead the voice of the one who had pinned her to the walls of that fateful dungeon, ten years ago, without restraint and now filled with hatred as well as hunger. **_Your blood will gush upon the ground!_**

_Remember to whom you are speaking, servant!_ She snapped back, as soon as she had caught her breath. At once the burning voice retreated in the wake of her anger, and parting it was a familiar tone that sounded calm, but very tired indeed.

_Leave me, Integra. Stay away._

_What- _

But he had already retreated. She tried to reach out again, only to be violently rebuffed. And then Alucard was gone.

_What on earth was that about?_

She was still struggling to sit upright again when Walter came back in, very swiftly. "Sir Integral, I have some bad news for you. Word has come that Dr. Trevallion is dead."

She felt as if she had been mentally struck again. "Trevallion? How?"

She listened as Walter spoke quickly and urgently; how the driver of Trevallion's car had driven him to the medical centre, only to find him sitting dead in the back seat. No marks upon him, only an expression on his face that showed he seemed to have died in great pain or stress. A search of his bag, which he had still been holding, yielded only his instruments and a letter addressed to her; the vial of her blood was gone.

She demanded to see the letter, and obediently Walter brought it to her. Her name was written on it in Trevallion's hand, his writing familiar from so many medical reports she had read. She ripped it open and pulled out the contents; two pieces of paper. The first one was a letter of confession. Trevallion hadn't succumbed to the trite theme of 'if you are reading this then I am dead', but his words were depressing enough in any case. He spoke of how sorry he was, and how he would never wish to cause her any harm, but events had spiraled out of control. He pleaded for her forgiveness, though he did not expect any.

'_I was forced to make a choice,' she read at one point, 'a matter of life and death. A choice, between you and them. A choice between the words that have dogged my life since I was ten, and the words of my loyalty to Hellsing. I chose you.'_ There was something about a vow, an obligation, that her mother had laid upon him when he was only young, something that he could not escape. _'Look at the other sheet. It is what they sent to me. You will understand then, I am certain.'_

The last few lines of his letter one again blamed himself and his weakness, and then praising her and apologizing that he could not help her any further. He wished he could have been of more use to her. The last line, just about his oh so familiar signature was deeply etched and potentially chilling line: _'Don't let them take you.'_

She found herself needing to breathe deeply as she looked at the other piece of paper, which was more like parchment, really. She read two extracts, two extracts about the duty and death of a boy, who was charged by his mother to fight, to never give in, and to never reveal his name.

**'****She put him under geasa, ****that is, under bonds, not to do these things…****'**

She found herself breathing harshly by the time she read the runic letters under the extracts. If what Trevallion claimed was true, then he had been bound by contract to do whatever some unseen enemy had wished, since his childhood – and what they had wanted was her blood, and he had refused to give it to them, and he had died because of that refusal and his loyalty to her. She felt as if she might choke at the twisted, sick wrongness of it. Who had done this? _Who has done this to him?_

_The Children of the Goddess…_

Could it be? Had those who had come to Ireland, and who had been worshipped as gods by those who came after them, survived to this day? The púca certainly had; why not beings even greater than that creature?

_The Children of the Goddess require the Daughter of the Goddess…_

How, _how_ could they know that her mother had been named for one of the greatest Indian goddesses, Lakshmi?

"They will pay," she hissed, once she had quite finished reading. "By God, whoever they are and whatever they are, they will pay for what they have done to me, and to Collum. If they think that they can take me for themselves, then they are very much mistaken."

_If my mother is Lakshmi, then I am Kali. And I will have my revenge._

_**

* * *

If I have made some errors in how sutures are made, then I ****apologise****. Considering I am the offspring of two doctors, I really know very little about how wounds are treated. The very thought of stitches makes me feel sick.**_

_**The way in which Integral smokes her cigars is how my dad ****use**** to smoke them, before he gave them up (he was never a heavy smoker in any case). Cigar smoke actually smells quite nice, and his study would often be full of the scent. **_

_**The idea of the geas****(or ****geis****, or however you wish to pronounce it) is fairly common in Irish mythology. Basically, if someone put a ****geas**** on you e.g. you must not eat fish, then if you did ****by some unhappy chance happen to eat fish, you'd lose your honor or maybe even die. This, in turn, has lead to some pretty daft goings on. One man and his sons were under a ****geas**** not to let anyone shout on a hill. Another man had two ****different ****geasa**** put on him, so that 1) he could not eat dog meat, and 2) he must always eat anything offered to him by a woman. Guess what happened when an old crone offered him some? ****Damned if you do, damned if you don't.**_

_**Lakshmi**** is the Hindu goddess of plenty and good fortune. Kali, by contrast, is a rather violent piece of work. Quite often she's portrayed with a necklace of skulls around her neck, which should give you some idea of what she gets up to at the weekends. However she can also be portrayed in a milder way, holding out a hand to the viewer, as a sign for her followers not to fear her.**_

_**(Yes, I am of the faction that believes Integra's mum was Indian. I mean, her ****colouring**** is just like Wendy's in Read or Die.)**_

_**Cuchulain of Muirthemne**, **Lady Gregory, foreword by W.B. Yeats, London, J. Murray, 1902. Quite a good read, though she does gloss over some parts of the legends. If you look up Cuchlain on Wikipedia, there should be a link to an online version of it down at the bottom of the page.**_

**_

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress._**


	11. Chapter Ten

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to Hellsing.Nada. Zilch. Etc.****

* * *

For anyone who has not read up on Irish mythology yet, or has not read Terry ****Pratchett's**_**Lords and Ladies **_**or seen Disney's **_**Gargoyles **_**(Disney shall always have my heart for giving us Puck voiced by Brent ****Spiner****, even though it kept making sequels to perfectly good classic films that don't need them), iron to the creatures of Irish fairy tales is basically what garlic is to vampires and silver is to werewolves **_**and **_**vampires in ****Hellsing****. Why that is I don't know exactly; probably something to do with the fact that they were eventually driven from this world by the rise of men, who wielded iron weapons. Couldn't be any odder than **_**Dracula: 2001**_** and its theory of who Dracula really was.**

* * *

The moon was so bright now that Bernadette hardly saw the need for headlights, but he had obediently turned them on, just as he was obediently driving the car as Seras had told him to. This was something that was relatively new to him. He was used to being under the orders of those richer than him, who had hired the services of he and his men, but he was not used to actually being ordered around himself. That was why you had mates who doubled as subordinates.

He missed his boys back in England. He missed the comfort he had never known that they provided him with, until now. Any one of them would die for another of their party, and, more importantly, every one of them was perfectly normal and not some type of creature he had never even deemed real until very recently.

Also, although they could be idiots sometimes, he was certain that none of them would ever come up with a plan as idiotic as the one he was obligingly forced to be a part of at this point in time.

_This is stupid. What's more, this is __also insanely __dangerous.__ Not a great combination, Bernadette._

He had been in enough difficult situations, whether in the field or in the bush, to know when he was sitting on the metaphorical ticking bomb; and right now that bomb was wedged into the back of the jeep with his belt fastened about its mouth to stop it screaming so loudly – though not doing the best job that it could, admittedly - its struggles shaking the vehicle and no doubt clocking up the need for that insurance form he had signed. True, they were doing all right now; they'd managed to bring it back to the jeep without any major injuries on their part, and the jeep wouldn't pack up just yet. Sooner or later they were going to have to take it _out_ of the jeep, though, and what the hell were they going to do then?

He was calm for the moment, of course, he couldn't afford to be anything else at this point, but he knew that soon it would all begin again. It was the space in between battles, when he had fought and getting his breathe back even as he was preparing to fight again, and next time they might not be so lucky, Seras might not be able to heal herself – such a strange thing that had been, to see her skin closing up and mending, leaving only the blood stained cuts in her sodden jumper and jeans – Anderson might not be able to overpower it again, and this time it might make for him instead of those who would be able to recover if they were trampled and ripped apart.

It was a possibility, and though it did not help at all to be afraid of possibilities it was still horrible to look at a future with teeth in it.

There was a tap on the glass, and he could see Seras out of the corner of his eye frowning at him, her hair still hanging in damp strands over her forehead, and hear her through the partly open window. "Not so fast, Bernadette, go slower. Anderson can't keep up."

Obligingly he lifted his foot further off the accelerator. At least Anderson had fairly long legs, otherwise they might as well be carrying the thing all the way back to the house themselves instead of cramming it into the jeep and having the priest try to hold it still. He was just surprised Anderson hadn't been smashed in the face or the throat by now, considering he only had Seras's iron ring and some sort of rosary he'd taken from a pocket to prevent the creature from kicking him and the vehicle to pieces and escaping. And he was thankful for that, indeed he was. But that didn't stop him from being angry, angry at both of them for being so foolish, so stupid in their righteousness. Why hadn't they just killed the thing then and there, if it was so evil? Why did they insist on keeping it alive, and for no reason that they would tell him?

_This is crazy, _he kept thinking. _This is utterly mad._What were they going to _do _with this thing, once they had gotten it back to the house? Had either of them thought about the fact that they were about to unleash the knowledge of this horrid creature upon a grieving couple with a monster in the place of their child upstairs, and an old lady, however tough and competent she was? And where were they supposed to put it, in the outhouse or what? About the only blessing they had had on this dreadful night was that they hadn't met anyone driving up behind them, or coming the other way, and knowing their luck it would be fated to happen on the last leg of the journey.

"Turn here," he heard Anderson say just then. _Or not._ Obediently and thankfully he turned the car to the right, and heard the crunch of the gravel that they had climbed only last night to burst into the lives of the poor people who lived in the abode. He could see that the lights were all out as they approached, and groaned softly as the motion light turned on as it sensed them. Well, this was up to Seras or the priest, because he for one wasn't going to wake up the residents only to explain that yes, the flesh eating horse was in fact real, and that they would be hiding it in the house.

Seras was darting up to the door even as he pulled up the clutch and turned off the engine, and it took only two knocks to get the door to open. And yes, it was Mrs. Hayes who opened the door, in a paisley dressing gown and pink slippers. Why wasn't he surprised? She and Seras began to talk at once, too low for him to hear, as he opened the door and got out, to go and see what Anderson was doing.

What the priest was doing, it emerged, was hauling the creature out by its legs and wrapping the rosary more securely about them than ever. The horse really did look awful now; the skin of its four ankles had been rubbed away by the constant presence of the iron, leaving a mess of oozing green and raw dark flesh, and from what he could see of its head it had all but bitten through its tongue, there was so much froth and blood around its mouth and soaking his belt. The one good yellow eye glared up at him from the ground, not with the madness of a normal angry horse but with intelligence that would have been disconcerting on a human and pretty damn scary on something that looked like an animal. It wasn't screaming now but growling, more like a pissed dog than anything else. He doubted he would be getting his belt back, or that he would want it back for that matter.

The gravel crunched, and then Mrs. Hayes was standing beside him, staring down at the beastie. "My goodness." What was wrong with the woman, couldn't she ever manage to be phased by anything? Was even a _little_ surprise too much to ask?

"You see what I mean, Mrs. Hayes?" Seras had of course followed the woman and was now hiding her hands behind her back, possibly twisting her fingers. "I noticed that the house had a shed around the back…"

"It does. It's a gardening shed for tools and such. I'll get the key, then we can put yer man in it." She was already walking back to the front door, as Seras directed Anderson to begin pulling the beast around the corner of the house. He did so with enthusiasm that was worse than the look on his face when he had been fighting the thing, barely an hour ago now. The head dragged behind the body in a wretched fashion, leaving a horrid trail of blood and foam behind it, the yellow eye still glaring at the two of them.

In the meantime, he had more to worry about as he grabbed Seras's wrist. _"That's _your plan? Hide it in the garden shed and hope no one notices? _C'est__ impossible!_"

"Calm down, Bernadette." She put her hand on his and patted it. "We won't be keeping it in there for long. Just enough to get some answers from it, and then we'll contain it somewhere else. Where I'm not certain, exactly, but somewhere other than here. There'll most likely be at least some pieces of iron in there, so we can keep it contained and quiet."

"But what do you want from it?" He voiced his unasked question at last. "Why didn't you just kill the thing? It's been the death of at least one man, and probably a lot more. It's savage, Seras, it'd kill any one of us if it could get free; I know that, the priest knows that better and you know that most of all. So what sort of answers are you expecting to get from that monster? And why do you want them?"

"Keep it down, Bernadette." She glared at him from under her damp fringe, and then, softly, she began to speak, so softly that he had to crane his head close to hers to hear. "There's something that I want to know, Bernadette. I know that it's savage. I know that it's feral; I know that it's intelligent. I know that it's not of this world. I know all that from tasting its blood and smelling it. I even have an idea of what it is. But that's all that I can know, because I'm not strong enough yet, Bernadette. And I have to find out more. I have to find out why that horrible horse is…something like the changeling upstairs."

"And how exactly are you going to do that?" somehow his hand had moved from her wrist to her arm, and now did not grip it but simply held it, feeling the firm flesh underneath the cloth.

"Oh, _I'm_ not going to be the one to find out. Not at all." Seras shook her head. Her smile looked all bad and wrong. "Bernadette, when Mrs. Hayes brings the key, could you please go into the kitchen while we're putting the horse in the shed and see if there's any black pudding left?"

* * *

Only once since he had been reborn had Alucard felt a physical pain harsh enough to make him weep, and weep still at the memory of it; when that wretched van Helsing had staked him and yet had _not _killed him, keeping him between death and a release of further death, his entire being caught in the agony of neither living nor being allowed to die. The sheer torture of it had nearly driven him into the terrible space beyond the insanity that was sometimes his lot, howling and shrieking curses on the professor and his companions and all their get, screaming with pain until even his undead throat was raw, weeping as he had not done since the days when he was impaled in a different manner on the Sultan's bed.

But now what he felt equaled and outdid that pain; now he was not impaled but hung and drawn and quartered, a traitor's death. So much agony he had felt over the years and centuries, both alive and undead, so many times he had been blown apart or ripped into pieces – and yet this time what tore him was not pistol shots, or stakes, or rape, or the dissecting knives of the Hellsing organisation. It was himself, both inside and outside, his nails against his flesh from one side and the hunger, the dreadful hunger, from inside.

There could be no pain greater than this, and no greater humiliation. He was so _helpless_, so _weak,_ caged in by his own body and tortured by the hunger that was his mind and his desire and his whole being, shredding everything that he was.

"No." He could hear a whisper from somewhere. Perhaps it was his lips, torn off and thrown away from him, far away. No, his mouth was still in the same place it had been the last time he had checked, still disgusting with the taste of the blood of that cat, and his material body was still where he had left it, sitting up against a rock somewhere in the night. Dammit, he could _feel_ the beast lashing about within him, within his blood, confused and frightened. What good was it, having a feline within him? What power did that give him? He needed more, he needed to give himself strength, dignity, he needed to feed – but he could not.

_No, no._

Where had it gone? Hunger had undone him. How he hated this, this weakness, and this pain. His fingers went to his arms and sank deep into his flesh to draw blood, he must feel the refreshing pain of a wound and not of this starvation, not the starvation that reminded him of the years in the darkness. Why was this? He did _not _need to feed, he did not need to drink, he was powerful, damnation he was famished.

How Integra would laugh, if he had allowed her to stay, if he had allowed her to know…

_No, no, no._

He wanted blood, and he wanted what lay within the blood. He wanted every part of her, he wanted her dead, he wanted her pinned beneath him, screaming and gasping, skin to skin, flesh to flesh, _blood to blood,_ he wanted to rule her and she to rule him, he wanted to kill her and she to kill him in return, a storm of hatred and passion and hunger, damn, damn hunger.

_I am better than this! I am more than this! This cannot be! It must not be!_

There was more pain, pain from somewhere else. What was it? Oh, yes, it was his arm, his right arm. Yes, he was biting into it to distract himself. He had almost bitten off his hand. It was not healing.

_Why does it not heal?_

He wanted. He _needed. _And he could have nothing. Caged in every way, and he was furious, and he could be furious at nothing.

_Let me out. Let me out, let me _out!

Some part of him, some dark and raging part that had not seen light in so very long, was surging up from inside him. He was not certain for how much longer he could keep it contained, or how much longer he would wish to. And then he did know what he would be any longer.

Alucard – Dracula – whatever he was now, was enraged, and famished, and distraught, and when a chance at blood came he leaped at it with fangs bared.

* * *

The best way she had found to explain it to Bernadette was that it was rather like a runner drinking or eating something high in sugar just before a race, to get their energy levels up and ready to be burned. Even after he had signified that he understood, he had still watched her with something like bemusement as she pulled off the wrapping and all but crammed the blood sausage into her mouth whole, as if he could not connect the object of his teasing and sexual innuendos with someone who would willingly eat black pudding raw as a substitute for a much needed boost.

It had been pretty good black pudding. When she had eaten it cooked it had been tasty, but raw it was excellent. It had come from an excellent cow as well, strong and full of its own will, struggling even as it had been dispatched; all the better. It would help her in what she must do. She licked her fingers to get every last little piece from her skin, and sighed as she felt the beginnings of what she needed growing in her belly and slowly spreading outwards and upwards. She felt stronger and more capable of doing what she must now.

"Thanks, Bernadette." She smiled at him before she turned to look through the open door and into the shed itself, ignoring Anderson's close stare as he stood by the wall of the house. The structure was large enough, even with all the garden implements, for the creature to lie on its side as it was doing now. It seemed almost to be curling into itself to avoid the heads of the rakes and the spades, not kicking now as it had done before, and Mrs. Hayes, bless her, had found a bicycle chain and snipped off the plastic that covered it so that they could bind its mouth more tightly before going back into the house to make sure that Patrick and Siobhan hadn't woken. She might have felt sorry for it, shivering on the floor and whining only very faintly now through the iron gag that they had made for it, but her shoulder and leg were still aching from the teeth that had pierced them and that cut through her pity. If she had been human instead of undead it would have drowned her or torn her to pieces, as it had done to that tourist, and not because it was hungry but – this was the distinct impression she had gotten from the blood that she had tasted – because it _could. _She had little patience for any sentient thing, human or not, that would do such a thing. Perhaps it was lucky that she needed to get information from it.

"You should go back inside," she added, more quietly. "It would be better if you did, both of you. You might not like what you see."

Of course she was expecting Anderson to refuse, and of course he did. "Leave, Draculina? What wretched thing are you intending to do, that you do not want a servant of God to see?"

"The _pére's _right, _mignonette_, much as I hate to admit it. We're in this together, _oui? _So don't leave us out."

Bernadette had been polite, and so it was he that she answered, although she couldn't quite bring herself to meet his eyes. "I am going to summon Alucard to where we are, and he is the one that will be doing the questioning, either by reading the creature's mind or drinking some of its blood. Are you certain that you wish to stay for that?"

Bernadette looked a little worried at that, she could see the nervous set of his mouth and the swell of his throat as he swallowed, but he nodded. She sighed and turned to the priest, tilting her head up to look him in the face and her arms akimbo. "And if you stay, you will _not _pick a fight with him, understood?"

Anderson really had no idea how alike he was to Alucard; one thing they had in common were their smiles. He slowly nodded, blond strands of his fringe slipping further down his forehead, and he crossed his arms and nodded his head, as if inviting her to proceed. Bernadette went to stand beside him, leaning against the flint wall of the house and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. For some reason her hadn't wanted his belt back, and so the jeans were dragged further down his hips. She pulled her eyes away before she could see the gap between jumper and trousers.

She turned instead to look at the creature in the shed again. It had stopped wriggling and was now looking at her out of its undamaged eye, the eye that she had not put out. It was giving her the sort of stare that seemed to be customary with things that possessed sharp teeth. Bernadette was right when he had said that if given a chance it would kill her, but now it was more than that. She had led to its capture and imprisonment, humiliation and something close to torture, and if it did get free it would attempt to slaughter her not now because it could, but because it wanted to with a passion. If it had had any scent at all, hatred and a fierce desire to make her suffer a most agonizing demise would have pouring off it.

It had a very sentient mind indeed.

It did not blink and she did not blink, and she did not look away as she delved into the darkness in the corners of her eyes. Effortlessly she found the connection between herself and the one who had given her new life and new power, stretching away into the shadows that lay in the miles between them. She did not follow it as she had done on other occasions when she had been drawn, but instead tugged upon it, to draw the attention of her former master, wherever he was.

As she expected, she caught hints of anger from him, most likely from being disturbed. She had found that she could often provoke annoyance in the one who had remade her. _Who is it? Who disturbs me?_

_Alucard_she said, trying not to sound too deferential – if she behaved like a servant, he would treat her like a servant, after all -_ I need you to help me._

_Help? _His voice, mental though it was, sounded odd; cracked and harsh, as if he were speaking through a parched throat. _What help?_

_I am interrogating a suspect we have found. I tasted some of their blood but-_

She was nearly blown off her feet by the snarl, a sound that seemed not to be that of Alucard at all but of something that was far more of an animal than he was. She staggered as it echoed through her. It was guttural, it was hungry, and it was coming nearer.

That snarl shook loose all the bars she had placed upon her fears, and on one fear in particular. That ghost story she had heard when she was little; about a woman who had killed her husband and dumped his body fifty miles away, and that night was taunted by mouthless words as her dead husband came back to kill her.

He was coming. They were coming.

_Dead man's coming fifty miles away. _The men knew where Daddy was. They were coming for him, and them.

_Dead man's coming forty miles away. _Daddy's telling them to run, to hide.

_Dead man's coming thirty miles away. _They're coming. Hide in a cupboard. Keep still, keep quiet.

_Dead man's coming twenty miles away. _Where's Daddy? Is he hiding?

_Dead man's coming ten miles away. _Daddy's out there?

_Dead man's coming five miles away. _The cars. The sounds of men getting out.

_Dead man's coming one mile away. _Hear them coming. Hear them coming.

_Dead man's at the gate. _Daddy's out there.

_Dead man's coming up the garden path. _They're coming for us.

_Dead man's at the __door,__ and the lock has failed. _Gunshots. Daddy.

_Dead man's inside. _Where are you going, Mummy?

_Dead man's got you. _Daddy. Mummy.

_Enough.__ That's over. It's another life. It's a story. It's not _me.

He was behind her, she knew as she steadied herself. She knew him, as he knew her, and he was right behind her. If he had any breath, she would have felt it on the back of her neck. She turned and looked at him, the one who had been her master, Alucard.

At first she hardly knew him, thought he must be someone else, he looked so unlike himself. His hair was so pale, paler than she had ever known it to be, the black that had been so distinctive now only present in faint streaks among the larger waterfall of grey. The moonlight seemed to shine right through it. His clothes, oh his clothes were in such a state, torn and shredded about the chest and arms, showing the skin beneath the cloth. She followed the rips and tears down to his wrist – oh, God, his _hand! _It was hanging from his arm by only a little muscle and skin, the bone was broken away! It looked as if it had been chewed, and she felt she knew who by, just as she knew who had made the scratches in his clothes and his skin. She could smell his blood upon him.

The only time she had seen him this way was the night when her old life had ended and her new one had begun, that night in Cheddar when the priest's ghouls had blown him apart. But he had healed himself then; why wasn't he doing it now? And then she looked last of all at his face, and she saw that if she did nothing but stand there, something would die. If she did do something, something would die in any case.

"Alucard, welcome." She must remain in control, and strong. She must not show any fear, not anymore. Bernadette _smelled _of fear, but to his credit he wasn't running. She didn't know what Anderson was doing; probably watching with his own perverted version of amusement. "I am glad that you have come."

She could see beyond his eyes, and she could see that he did not want this any more than she did, not because of any sort of ethics but because it would mean that he would lose control, and control was everything to him. But what was most frightening, even more so than his face, was that she could see as well as he could that there was something that was draining that control and the power that came with it, some deep hunger that had not been there yesterday afternoon, something that was not him but another.

He was strong, but he could not keep this up much longer. Yes, something would have to die. She would have to make sure that she could turn it to their advantage.

He took a step forward, and she could almost feel his fangs in her neck, and this time he would drain her life away, every drop. Death was coming, but would it come for her, or for Bernadette or Anderson? "You want blood. But you don't want my blood; not _my _blood. You've already had that, and I should think that it's very dull fare. You've had me, and you gave me back to myself. And I am thankful, so thankful. I wish to show how thankful I am." And she stepped forward, as she had stepped out of the cupboard she had hidden it, and stepped towards the one who might kill her, his eyes as red as old blood.

Her hands were empty, but she reached up and placed them on his shoulders and pulled herself up onto her toes, close to his eyes and his mouth. He shuddered. His hand came to her waist and grasped it, not lovingly but as if he would rip her in pieces and cast them aside. His nails dug deep into her flesh. But before he could make use of any one of his many weapons against her, her words came quickly, like a fork jabbed into an eye.

"I have a _present_ for you, Alucard. A gift, unlike any you have ever had." Her blue eyes looked into his red, and she had to grit her tooth so as not to scream at what she saw in them, before she could go on. "It's just for you; it's strong and powerful, and it's in the shed, and it's _all yours."_

The blow came to her gut as she was pushed aside and as he surged forward. Looking over her shoulder she could see the horse as it began trying to struggle again, trying to get away, its one eye bulging as it lifted its head from the ground, its lips and tongue straining at the iron chain they had so obligingly gagged it with so that it could make no scream as Alucard fell down upon it, his form already growing shadowy. She was positive she saw an eye open in his shoulder just as the door began to swing shut, but that wasn't the worst thing; the worst thing was the shrill squeak that came from her 'present' as the door slammed shut. The whole business had only lasted a few seconds.

"Don't go in after him," she shot dryly at Anderson even as he moved forward, his face now dark as the sound of ripping and tearing began from within the wooden shed. "He needs to feed and quickly, and he can't do that if you're jabbing him full of sabers. We'll get the answers I want anyway. Besides, what do _you _care what happens to an unholy demon? You," and here she could not stop the little surge of hysterical laughter, "you probably think it's _fitting_, dog eat dog and all that."

Anderson glared at her before he turned and walked slowly away, casting a long shadow against the wall of the house until he rounded the corner. With a mutter something along the lines of _"__malade__" _Bernadette pulled her after him, away from the shed and whatever was happening inside it.

"That was terrible. Terrible of me." She could not help it; she leaned into his shoulder. It was so good to feel human warmth again, after the coldness of everything. "I'm a terrible person."

_"__Idiote__."_His accent flowed around her, as did his scent. "Don't do that. You're not a bad person, _mignonette_you're probably one of the sanest people I know, even if you are a vamp."

"But it looked so afraid – it was trying to get away, and it was trying to scream-"

"Just one question, Seras. Did you know that that was going to happen when you called Big Bad Red?"

"No." Her voice was weak, and she had to try again. "No. I told you, he simply would have drunk some of its blood. Blood has power, you know. But..."

"Then don't beat yourself up over it. It's not your fault. You handled the situation as best you could; from the look of him, he would have taken a bite out of _you _if you hadn't distracted him."

"It was all I could do. It was the only thing I could do." Suddenly she felt urgency in her again, and she grasped his shoulder; he yelped although he tried to cover it up with a couch. "Bernadette, go and get the portable phone and call Sir Hellsing, and tell her everything that has happened just now. And I do mean _everything. _I want her orders on what to do next, because I don't have a bloody clue."

"What do you mean?" Bernadette rubbed his arm which he had pulled free.

"I've calmed him down for now. But what's going to happen when he gets hungry again? And he _will_ get hungry, Bernadette. He's famished, for some reason, I don't know why. Next time we won't have a demon horse to feed him, and so he might go looking for another sentient being to feast on. Get the phone, and call Sir Hellsing, _now._"

When he was gone Seras leaned her head against the wall and choked back something – she wasn't sure what it was. She hadn't wanted this to happen, she hadn't thought it would happen. At home Sir Integral would accuse her of negligence, but she wasn't home. She was in a country where babies were replaced with monsters and where creatures lived in rivers to kill the unwary, a place with greater power than her former master so that he must feed on some of that power to keep himself from going out of control.

Seras felt so afraid, and so alone. But to be weak went against everything she was now as a vampire, and so she stood straight and tall, not even resting against the wall anymore, waiting for Alucard to finish so that she could ask him what she wished to know, or waiting for Pip to come back after calling Sir Hellsing, or waiting for Anderson to return to kill them both, or waiting for Mrs. Hayes or Patrick or Siobhan to come out at the ripping sounds and growls and ask what was happening, or waiting to go under from all the memories that seeing Alucard had shaken loose. She had no idea what would happen first, or next. And it thrilled her as nothing else had done in quite a while.

* * *

Tara, once seat of both the Tuatha Dé Danann and the human High Kings of Ireland, was beautiful under the bright light of the moon. The light shone upon the many ring forts, ring barrows and the entrance to the Mound of Hostages, its paleness only adding to the beauty that the ancient site possessed. It was easy to see in the darkness and the light why the Hill of Tara was considered such an important and significant monument to the humans, even after they had lost their respect for so many other things.

In the middle of the _Forradh_the Royal Seat, stood the _Lia__Fáil_the Stone of Destiny; and seated jauntily atop the stone was a figure whose hair shone all the more darkly when the moonlight touched it, and whose pale pointed ears were tipped with black fur. His eyes were not black, though; they were blue, such a bright shade of blue. When he smiled his teeth were fine and white and sharp.

The vampires had drawn first blood, but when the time came, they would be broken. They would devour themselves for the power they so desperately sought.

The stone had once screamed when a new king had been chosen, a scream that could be heard all over Ireland. But that wretched red haired fool had split it when it had not cried for his insipid protégé, and now it was wounded, as so many other things were wounded.

But it would be healed when the time of the Children would begin anew, and it would scream in joy when one of its own was crowned king, and the scream would be heard not just in Ireland, but throughout the world.**

* * *

It's ****only **_**just **_**occurred to me that quite a lot of the Hellsing ****characters have troubled childhoods****, enough to give any Mary-Sue a run for her money. Everyone knows, of course, about Integral nearly getting killed by her uncle and seeing his henchmen getting ripped up by ****Alucard**** and shooting him herself. (That's one of the reasons why I love her so much; she was kick-****arse**** even when she was little.) But Walter was smoking and killing things at fourteen; ****Enrico**** Maxwell was dumped in an orphanage because his parents didn't want him, which might well have contributed to his later sociopathic tendencies; Pip was all weepy because his family were mercenaries and therefore supposedly had no honor; ****Alucard**** spent his time as a child hostage getting raped by the Sultan; and ****Seras****, whom so many people regard as sweet and innocent (which she is, sort of) saw her parents murdered before her, stabs one of the murderers in the eye with a fork, gets shot in the stomach, and as she passes out sees the murderers having sex with her mother's dead body.**

**Yep. ****Cheerful stuff.**** I can only hope she's had extreme counseling.**

**Tara is, as I have said, a place of extreme cultural significance, since it contains so many important monuments, not least what is generally considered to be the Stone of ****Destiny.**** (The one who was supposed to have split it, by the by, is ****Cúchulainn****.) Coincidently, a recent building project means that the new N3 motorway will pass directly through the Tara-****Skryne**** Valley, about 1.37 miles away from the actual hill. Many of the Irish public ****are**** not happy about this, and there have been protests. Tara has actually been included in the World's Monuments Fund's 2008 Watch List of the most endangered sites in the world.**

**This sort of thing makes me feel very sad indeed.****

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from ****Hellsing****, or any Irish fairytale.**

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**Having seen the trailer for** **Hellboy**** II: The Golden Army (which looks really ****freakin****' awesome, by the by) I can only plead that I did **_**not**_** steal the whole ousted supernatural culture rising again theme from the film. I thought of it first. All right, I was inspired by ****Asenath****, but I was the first to show off my work in this manner. If anything, they stole it from me.**

**Go see it when it comes out, though. I repeat;**** it looks really ****freakin****' awesome.**

**(Also, for some reason, the dividing lines in editing aren't working, so excuse all the 0's.)**

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_In this dream, she saw herself (or a woman a little like herself) standing in the shadows of a great forest late in the night. The shapes of branches and moonlight played over her arms and bodice and the wind pulled at the skirts of her dress and teased strands of her red-gold hair, but curiously Integra could not make out the woman's face, save to acknowledge in some strange way that she was extremely beautiful. _

_What else did she really nee__d to know, after all?__ In this dream, it seemed enough that the woman was beautiful, and alone, and deep in the woods, whether by her own design or from sheer accident._

_**"Lady?"**_

_Integra was used to hearing voices coming out of whatever darkness surrounded her at the time, and so she was less than startled at the sound of this one - one and many - and more intrigued by it. It sounded like the rustle of leaves against each other as they fell from trees, the brush of feathers in a bird's wing as it took to the sky, the wind in the hair of a galloping horse. It sounded _alive_, more alive than any voice, or voices, she had ever heard._

_It sounded too alive to possibly be real. That made it as eerie as any sound from the undead throat of a Freak, or a No-Life King._

_Beyond the voice, she could hear the sound of a harp playing, playing a tune that could easily be danced to, a tune both beautiful and sinister._

_**"Lady?"**_

_She was used to eyes appearing out of the darkness as well, but those she had experience with were usually blood red and at least looked human. The many pairs of shining eyes here were pale and bulbous and, what was more worrying now to her, they had no pupils. They looked like no eyes she had ever seen…_

_…or rather she had, but never on something walking upright._

_The woman in her dream showed no sign of fear or even any reaction to this startling turn of events, and Integra began to wonder if she was possibly drugged or be-spelled. But she – _it_ was just a figment of her imagination. This wasn't real. Just like __Alucard's__ subconscious teasing, just like that vile bitch's phantasms, no matter how real this seemed, it _wasn't.

**"****Lady?**_** Will you join our dance, pretty lady?"**_

_There were more of them now__ in the darkness, just beyond her sight__ The eyes seemed to be all around them now, the voices slid through the trees like snakes, hissing their invitation. They were no longer gentle now – now they sounded like the grinding of a dog's teeth, the hiss of a predator's claws against a stone as it braced itself to spring, a snarl buried deep in the wet redness of the throat. There were other noises too; the sounds of something dry brushing over roots, like the coils and scales of a snake._

_**"Will you **__**come**__** dance at the revels, pretty lady? Come and dance in the woods with us."**_

_At last the mysterious woman spoke, in a voice without any trace of an accent, softly, as if she herself was dreaming: "I want to, really, but…I have things to do. I have things to take care of. I still have so much to accomplish. My father will be _so_ cross if I neglect my tasks."_

_This dream was becoming uncomfortably eerie, not only in imagery but also in content. She was surprised that she was thinking so clearly, not further involved in the dream; but then not so surprised, and more angry. This clear headedness on her part was a sure sign that this was no ordinary subconscious illusion. This stank of deliberate tampering with her sleeping mind__, once again_

_Whatever was in the woods laughed, now sounding truly sinister, and she turned her attention back to the scene being played out before her. __**"Do not worry, pretty lady. We will make sure that you can dance uninterrupted, for as long as you like." **__They __laughed again, as something began to move forwards out of the darkness and towards them. The sight of the dark advancing shape was unpleasant, but it was not horrifying, and Integra still was not yet afraid._

_It became more and more unnerving when Integra saw a figure that looked exactly like the woman in her dream, but also very like herself,_ _step out of the shadows of the trees. Unlike either of them this one's hair was not straight but curled down to the waist, and walked with hands upon hips and bodice low cut, showing off pert breasts to best advantage, lips pink and soft looking and fixed in a tranquil, almost post-coital smile._

_Even this was not frightening, though it was certainly a shock to see an image of something like __herself__ looking so utterly _unlike_ herself, and moving with a sinuous grace that was alien to her. If this was anyone's idea of a jibe at her sexuality, it was a pretty poor one._

_But it became terrifying when this copy of the two of them opened her eyes, and she felt a surge of pure horror and disgust at what she saw. The _thing _had her eyes, true, but they were her eyes when she lay upon her back, dead with a sword driven through her, staring blankly up at the sky. They were her eyes when she coughed out her last bloody breath in her sick bed, wasting away ignobly. They were her eyes when the garrote was tight at her neck and she struggled for the air that would not come, blood vessels bursting in the whites as she choked. Those were her eyes, the same shape, the same __colour__, yes…but they were also the eyes of a dead thing._

No,_ she whispered, but even in her dream no one and nothing could hear her. _No.

_The voices chuckled. __**"Here you are, pretty lady. **_**She**_** can take your place, and take your life. She can free you. Come dance with us, never leave, and she will stay in your place. Cut yourself free, pretty lady." **__The false one, the one with rotting eyes, smiled wider – such a terrible, mocking smirk –and t__he pink lips split__revel__ing__ too sharp teeth._

_This was pointless. This was simply a dream, a horrid dream, a controlled dream but a dream, and she would, could, wake up. And if someone or something tried to stop her, she'd fight all the more._

_**"You see? Come with us, pretty lady. Come dance in the woods and under the earth, and never come back."**_

_Already the other woman was moving forward, and she saw now with a growing sickness that this one's eyes, were in a way even more frightening than the rotting orbs of the copy…they were alive, but they were also completely lost, as blank and lifeless as un-carved wood. She was stretching out her hands, and something from within the forest was reaching out to take them._

_A pale, smooth hand, as pale as that of a vampire and as long fingered, but lacking __Alucard's__ sharp nails that people rarely saw beneath the gloves he wore. It glowed faintly in the shadows, dwarfing the woman's own dainty hands as it swallowed them up-_

The feeling of _pressure _upon her own wrist was enough to make Integra start awake without further delay, but it was more than that. As she had felt the grip on her hands, she had also seen clearly into the darkness for the first time, and the eyes that had looked directly back at her…

"Sir Integral?" She looked up to see Walter standing by her bedside, his fingers on his wrist, no doubt to wake her. Her butler's face was filled with even more worry than it had been when she had retired, too shocked and outraged to do anything but drink a nightcap to get to sleep faster. "There has been another call from Miss Victoria. She has something that you need to hear, at once." He knew when she needed to hear things or not, or he would not have woken her.

It was a hurried few minutes to rise from her bed and pull herself into her dressing gown and make her still sleepy way to her office, which was where the call came in, and pick up the receiver and ask "What is it, Victoria?" and be shocked further out of sleep by the voice that most certainly did not belong to any employee of hers.

"A very unfortunate occurrence, Sir Hellsing. That is what has happened."

She had to refrain from hissing like a cat. This was all that she needed. "Anderson, what have you done to Victoria? Need I remind you of our words at the airport? If you have harmed her-"

"Your concern for your servants might actually be touching, Hellsing. Who knew that the Ice Maiden could actually melt a little?" There was a chuckle which made her want desperately to strangle the person on the other end of the line, before he went on. "The…lass is right here, Hellsing, and if she has been damaged in any way then it is by her own hand, or that of the one who made her."

"Then give the phone back to her at once, Anderson, for I have no wish to talk to you at this point. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

There was another chuckle, and then sounds of movement, and then, blessedly, Seras's voice arrived in her ear, sounding dreadfully tired but very able and willing. "Hello, Sir Integral. Don't worry, he's telling the truth; I'm all right, and so is Bernadette. But Alucard…"

The clichéd way her voice trailed off was enough to cause the dread to rise in her mouth, the taste of it at the back off her mouth, like bile before nausea. "Victoria, what has happened? Why is Alucard with you, and what is the matter with him?"

She listened, half-believing and half-unbelieving, as Seras hurriedly retold what had happened since the last call, really not that long ago, right up to when they had dared to look into the shed, found Alucard sated and unconscious with no evidence of his victim or his meal, and had dragged him into the house and placed him on the sofa in the living room. She believed what Seras said because she had no trouble at all imagining that Alucard would be capable of doing such a thing. Hadn't she seen him rip apart four grown men ten years ago, hadn't she seen him lapping blood from a severed head, hadn't she seen him tear off her uncle's arm as if the man was nothing but a plaything he had grown bored with, that he merely wished to break for the fun of it? She knew the secret that did not just belong to Alucard but to all true vampires; that their true beverage was not blood but power over others, and that her servant longed to indulge that desire whenever he could. She knew what he had done to that long haired Valentine invader, disgusted with him, ripping him apart and devouring him with those canine extensions of his body, just because he could. He had skewered Incognito on a spike of silver and displayed him on top of Saint Paul's. Compared with all that, making a meal out of a demonic horse seemed rather mundane.

But she knew just as well that if he were in what passed for his normal mind, he would never have done such a thing. Living in his company for the past ten years had taught her all that she needed to know about his range of likes and dislikes, and she knew that he considered humans or vampires his only true prey now. If he was ravenous for the blood of animals, no matter how supernatural they might be, then that meant that something inside him must finally have snapped; and the only thing that had held him back from attacking Seras or Bernadette or even Anderson on the spot were the Hellsing seals and bonds. Evidently he was not so far gone that he could not feel the intense pain they would provide should he try to go against them.

Seras had said that he seemed as if he _knew _that he had lost control over himself, and he couldn't regain it. Control was everything to one of his kind. Everything.

"What sort of state is he in now, in any case?" She ran her fingers through her hair as she asked that, hoping in what was probably a futile manner that Seras's answer might somehow be positive.

"I have to say, sir, I thought that feeding would at least do something for him, but it doesn't seem as if it's had any effect at all! He's not responding to me and his hair's practically white now; his cheeks are sunken in and his arm's still not healing." Seras lowered her voice, and now Integral could feel the worry in her voice. Of course she would be worried; largely free of his influence or not, Seras was still tied to Alucard in other ways, by bonds that could never be truly undone. "Sir Integral? Do you know what's the matter with him?"

For once, Integral was at a loss when speaking to the young vampire. What Seras had just described sounded rather like the state she had found Alucard in when she crash-landed into his dungeon, but that had taken a number of years for him to achieve through complete lack of food, not a matter of a day or so. It sounded rather as if Alucard was starving into hibernation…but that couldn't be right; he could go without blood for months at a time, why would he suddenly fall into this condition now?

"What?" Her attention was swiftly brought back to Seras, who now sounded surprised and further away; evidently she was talking to some other person in the room. "Really? You're certain? Fairly certain. All right then, I'll tell her. Erm, Sir Integral," her voice coming back to the phone, "there's a lady here called Mrs. Hayes who wants to speak to you. She says that she thinks she knows what's wrong with Alucard."

"Then let her tell me, by all means. I would welcome some answers at this point."

She waited while fumbling noises rasped in her ear, and then there was a new voice, the voice of a woman, probably middle aged and with a strong Irish accent. "Hello? This is Nora Hayes speaking."

"This is Sir Integral Hellsing replying," she shot back crisply, sitting down in her chair. "Do you know what is wrong with my servant, then?"

"I believe that I do, Sir Hellsing, if that is how you wish me to call you. Judging by what I have heard and what I have seen of your servant, I strongly believe that he's had the great misfortune to fall under the curse of the hungry grass."

"…Hungry grass." It was too late at night for this, and she was too tired, even if she would never admit it to anyone. "What is that, exactly, Mrs. Hayes?"

"I can tell you don't believe me, and truly I don't blame you. But I'll explain in any case. The hungry grass, Sir Hellsing, is a plague of sorts in the form of a patch of yellow grass, sometimes inflicted by the Fair Folk, sometimes by things older than they. If you step into the circle and do not immediately eat something upon passing through it, then you will remain forever hungry; weak people could even die within that yellow circle. Your servant has the curse of the hungry grass upon him, for he's wasting away before our eyes. Soon he'll want to feed again, and soon _nothing_ will be able to satiate him."

"This is ridiculous."

"No more ridiculous than an _Aughisky_ in the garden shed?"

"A what?" Integral wondered if that was even a proper word she had heard.

"Oh, that's the Irish name for a Kelpie, Sir Integral." Damn her, the woman actually sounded slightly amused by all this. The knight sighed, rubbing her tired eyes.

"All right. Supposing that this thing actually _has_ happened…Mrs. Hayes, could you please put the phone to Alucard's ear? Or get Anderson to do it, if you're afraid that he might bite?"

"I'll do it, don't you worry." There was more rustling and then silence, and she guessed that the person listening was now Alucard, betrayed by his lack of breath. Now was the dangerous time; not for her, not yet, but for the people surrounding him. She could only hope that the sound of her voice would not set him off again. At least the two people most equipped to handle him were in the same room.

_"__Alucard__."_

She heard the sharp hiss as he sucked in air that he did not need through his teeth. That meant he was listening to her even as he was refusing to speak to her across the distance between them. "Alucard, I know that you can hear me. I know what you have done. I will excuse it, so long as you keep yourself together from now on, and as long as you provide Seras with the information she desires. You will not descend into a frenzy again, nor will you let yourself waste away. I will not have you being weak and a slave to your own excesses. Do you understand?"

"Yyyesssss, Mmmassssster." He hissed again on the consonants, although this time it seemed to be by accident. But there was understanding behind the assent, and acceptance as the seals no doubt tightened further, and so she went on.

"I will be coming to you tomorrow, Alucard. Until then, remember this; I order you to remain strong, and I order you to feed on nothing else, or at least nothing living. And nothing undead either," she added quickly, remembering Seras just in time. "I order you not to let whatever has you in its clutches overpower you. You can find better things to succumb to than hunger. I order you, Alucard. Your Master commands you."

"Yesss, Integraaall," he muttered, drawling out her name, sounding more sated now, if ever he could get drunk. Perhaps he was actually relishing the fact that she was giving him orders. He did seem to enjoy it when she did that.

"Enough, servant. Be strong. I will see you tomorrow, Alucard. Until then, remember my words. Tell Seras that I wish to speak to her again." He muttered his obedience and spoke at the one holding the phone, no doubt drawing out every hiss as much for his own amusement as anything else, and then there was more fumbling and Seras's voice came back.

"Yes, Sir Integral?"

"Seras, answer me truthfully. Do you honestly believe that Mrs. Hayes believes in what she is saying?"

"Yes, sir." There was no hesitation there. Admittedly the vampire wasn't the best judge of character that she could wish for, but there was no help for it.

"Very well. I shall see you all quite soon, then." She ended the call before Seras could ask more, and pointed at Walter, who quickly stood to attention. "Get as many of the Geese up as are needed, and get them down to the cellars, and make sure that the helicopter is prepared as well. I want to be ready to leave by at least seven o'clock."

"Sir Integral, you wish to go to Ireland as well? But it will be tantamount to a breach of treaty!"

"It will be just as much a breach of treaty if Alucard goes mad and turns upon the locals. I'm not willing to risk testing the power of the seals. You have my orders, Walter; _do it."_

Her stitches were beginning to throb again, painfully. As soon as Walter was gone she allowed herself the luxury of putting her fingers to her forehead, to the place where hair and skin had been ripped from her, and then to her arm where blood had been taken. For all that this was her own choice, it felt horribly as if she were being summoned to that ancient island now that the scene had been set for her arrival.

Well, if fairies _could _bite, then they would find that she could bite back.

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She had woken up alone in the bedroom. Everything about her felt so heavy, even tainted; her breasts ached and there was a bad taste in her mouth. She guessed that Pat must have given her sleeping pills again. She didn't blame him, not really. She remembered what she had been like last night – _Was I really crying that much? _– and the nights before, and that he might have feared a relapse into hysterics.

Still, that didn't mean she appreciated being doped either. She was hungry as well, she realized now. She had hardly eaten any of the dinner that Nora had provided for her, and she was feeling the effects of it. The pills, combined with an almost empty stomach, must have worked like a knockout drop. She wanted something to drink at least.

She fumbled for the light switch to the lamp, then gave it up as a lost cause and pulled her feet out from under the blanket and sought out her slippers. When she had been little she had been terrified of monsters hiding under the bed, but now she knew that there was nothing worse than the thing upstairs.

As she thought of it, she wondered if it had been fed in the last while. She had been asleep for much of last night and much of the morning; the last time she could remember Pat going up with something to feed to it had been…early yesterday afternoon, wasn't it? Perhaps he had been too distracted by the guests to think about it anymore. Perhaps Nora had done it instead. She would have to ask. She groped around for her dressing gown, and found it on the back of the chair. As she pulled it on, her breasts began to ache even more. She felt inside her bra and found dampness; they had leaked again.

The dull pain and the wasted liquid made her want to begin to cry again. Her body and her heart ached to feed her baby girl, to hold her in her arms and feel her skin and smell the sweetness of her hair. She wanted Ciara back. How could her daughter survive without her milk? Was she being fed properly? What was happening to her?

The only way she would ever find out was if they kept the thing upstairs, the changeling, safe. They would keep it fed and keep it clean, and they would find some way to get rid of it and get their daughter back. It was a good dream. It comforted her.

She wondered how much longer the thing would survive.

She shuffled out into the corridor, past the kitchen and towards the living room. She peered in through the open door, and stared at the…man in a long red coat, lying on the sofa and taking long hissing breathes. Father Anderson was staring at him with such a horrible expression on his face, filled with anger and hate…_He was so nice to me yesterday, _she thought flatly, as she looked over at Pat sitting with his head in his hands, and Nora talking to the pretty young woman called Seras, explaining about some sort of affliction: 'hungry grass', which marked the spot where some strange sort of being had died, or which had been cast by some strange creature. "The _Fear __Ghorta_he's called, the man of hunger. Famine calls him from the ancient barrows of the Tuatha de Dannan. He travels the land, bringing rewards to those who are kind and generous in times of hardship, and punishing those who are greedy and cruel. He is of the Tuatha de Dannan and yet not of them, a mixture of human and fey blood."

Father Anderson snorted at this, and Nora looked over at him with the eyebrow raise that she did so well. "You, Father Anderson, should know better than anyone that humans aren't the only aware creatures on this earth. Nor were we the first, either."

That was enough for Siobhan. She backed into the corridor, and then turned and walked into the kitchen without turning the light on. She knew it well enough that she could walk to the cupboard where the keys were kept without banging into the table and pick the spare key for that room off its hook.

She took some pride in how quietly and stealthily she made her way up the stairs, not allowing one creak to give herself away. Once she'd put out her and realized there were no more stairs to climb, she allowed herself to feel for the switch and shed light on the landing. Pat had told her not to come up here by herself, but for the moment she didn't want to listen to Pat. She wanted to do something herself, not to sit around and be useless any longer. Still, it was difficult for her to approach that door, and unlock it.

It had never been locked before the thing came.

The light came on again, and she walked over to the cradle. She could think that it was simply her baby in the crib, her little Ciara, her sweetest softest darling baby daughter. She could think that in-between when she reached the side of the crib and when the thing opened its eyes.

When she had first seen those eyes, she had screamed and screamed and screamed, and had continued screaming long after Pat had dragged her downstairs. Now she simply fixed her eyes on its wrinkled bow, its chubby chin, any part of its face rather than its eyes. It no longer filled her with terror, she was not so afraid of it now. All the terror she felt was now for her daughter, and all that she felt for the changeling was a dull, flat horror and the reluctant need to keep it alive and well to get their baby back.

She could see from its general state and somehow tell from the faint air of desperation that surrounded it like a cloud that it was hungry, not only from the way in which it whimpered and stretched out its plump hands towards her, its movements echoing those of Ciara, its little plea the same as the noises she had made when she was angry, happy, upset. It looked like her daughter, sounded like her, and behaved as she might. At the sight of it her breasts ached to give suck, but she firmly ignored the ignorant desire of her body. She didn't know if the thing was attempting to control her or whether it was simply her own repressed instinct, but she would not let the thing touch her bare flesh, let alone her breast. Who knew what it might draw out of her with its horrid mouth, other than her milk?

"You aren't looking too well, are you?" she muttered, half to herself and half to the changeling. "That probably means that we're running out of time. And I can't take that chance. I can't risk it." Reluctantly she reached out and picked up the thing with practiced hands, positioning it against her as if it were a real baby, though drawing her dressing gown firmly closed to guard against any groping little hands. The thing cooed falsely and snuggled against her; she bit her lip to choke down the sickness that she felt.

"I wouldn't get too comfortable if I were you," she muttered as she turned to the door. "You're going to see Nora." The thing paused in its movement against her. Did it already associate Nora with danger and jeopardy and insecurity, or was it for some other reason that the thing showed a particular distaste, perhaps even a fear, of her?

"And if she says so," Siobhan went on, as she reached the doorway and turned out the light, marveling at the calm of her own words, "I'll throw you onto the fire myself."

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**Yes, I made reference to breast feeding and a general leakage of milk. So sue me. Practically everyone's been breastfed at some point or another, and it is a perfectly natural occurrence for the mammary glands to do this. So don't be squeamish, folks!**

**The idea of the 'hungry ****grass'**** became especially popular during the Irish Famine, when thousands of people were starving to death while some rich people were well off. Another theory of how they came into being goes all the way back to the legends of one of the first group of people to settle in Ireland; the ****Partholonians****, who came from Scythia. After lots of fighting against the ****Formorians****, people (or demons, depending on which myths you read) who were already living there and didn't want to give up their land, the ****Partholonians**** were struck down by a deadly plague. Every place where a plague victim died became, in time, a spot of hungry grass, where the souls of the dead race fed upon the flesh and health of whoever was unfortunate enough to step into it.**

**Since this particular myth doesn't come into my story in any way (most probably), you can forget all that now if you want to. **

**Sorry the chapter's so short. Relatively large plot revelation will ****come**** next chapter…again, most probably.**** At the very least you'll find out why Siobhan wants to chuck the changeling on the fire.**

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**Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


	13. Interlude

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing. And, just in case, i'm not ripping off Hellboy II: The Golden army either.**

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I am very sorry that this has taken so long, and that there's so little to show for it. Thus, this is an interlude, and hopefully I will be able to write more soon.**

**I am, however, **_**really **_**looking forward to Hellboy II: the Golden Army. It's times like these I wish I lived in America. You lot over there always get the best films first. But I'm not bitter. Not much.**

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Up to the surface for a time to see how the wind did, then back below the water to stir up the gale. They chased the storm and made it grow, huge and freezing and poisonous and deadly.

And at times their females would throw themselves in their path, pleading in the whines of their brother seals that they not do this, they should not do this, there was peace between those of the land and those of the sea. But they snarled and drove past the females and left them to bark in despair. The time had come for the hunt to begin, and would they stay behind and say that they had not taken part? And would the final vengeance not come, for they and their brother seals who had endured so much pain and loss? The humans would pay with their blood for every hide that had been torn from its rightful owner, selkie or seal, and for every death and rape that the brother races had endured.

There were flashes of scales beneath them now as other people of the sea were caught in the tides that they were making, terrified fish and jelly fish and the merrows, the beautiful females clinging together and shrilling in fear, the hideous males furious but powerless to stop the changes that were coming. One or two of them had tried to grasp with their arms or hinder with blows of their tails, but the mer-people would never halt them in their desire to let wrath fall upon the iron race.

Let the merrows chatter and hide, hide all away! Soon the humans would learn to fear the sea once more, and fear what would come from it, seeking revenge for the banishment that all their kind had suffered on the green land and in the ocean. Then the merrows and their own females would be glad enough to rise and feed and play and walk upon the land again, when it was theirs once more.

The selkies, the roane, went on with their work. The storm was coming, and soon it would break upon the land._

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Scared._

_So scared. _

_Not-mother says she'll put me on the fire._

_Not-mother wants me dead._

_Not-mother wants the other back._

_That one said she shouldn't._

_The old one._

_Nano._

_We know her._

_Nano helped us once._

_Would she hurt us now?_

_Would she?_

_Would she send me back?_

_Not time yet._

_Not ready._

_Not ready._

_Does she know?_

_Can she know?_

_Nano's special._

_Nano's old. _

_Nano's tricky._

_Nano knows us. _

_What will she do?_

_What can I do?_

_Not-mother hates me._

_I have done nothing!_

_Only did what I was bid!_

_Not my fault!_

_One more day._

_Samhain Eve._

_One more day._

_Don't want to go._

_Don't want to stay._

_Voices._

_Heat._

_Hate._

_The priest, the one who thought he could kill me with silver._

_He thought that _he_ could kill _me_._

_Smell of blood._

_The blood of my kind._

_The vampire in red reeks of it._

_I am sorry, whoever you were._

_I hope it was quick._

_Not-mother wants to throw me on the fire!_

_Don't want to!_

_I can't go back!_

_Not yet! _

Not yet!

_Please, Mother, Father, not yet!_

_Nano says no. _

_Nano says to wait._

_Nano knows about Samhain._

_Nano says that they'll try then._

_They'll go to the lake._

_They'll try to get the other back._

_She _must_ come before then._

_She must, or it will be for nothing._

_The female vampire says that she is coming._

_She will be here tomorrow._

_Blood of my kind may tell._

_They will not know._

_I _know _that she will come to see me off._

_My part is nearly done._

_Not-mother will be happy that I am gone._

_I will be praised. _

_I will be thanked._

_I will be loved._

_It will be done, as everyone has hoped and prayed._

_We will be saved._

_We will be one again, all of us._

_We will return._

_Parents and children, together again._

_Tomorrow, Samhain Eve, it will be done._

* * *

The smile she had carved into the pumpkin looked faintly ridiculous, but Mary put it outside anyway to acknowledge the holiday, to say that yes, she accepted Halloween and didn't think it to be the Devil's night. The night of All Hallows, rather, that was what the sisters had always said, although they had never carved pumpkins at the convent school. She would light it later, when it got darker and if the rain let off. For now it would simply grin at anyone who drove by and fill up with water.

She stood at the till now, watching the rain coming down so thick she could barely see the bridge on the other side of the road. Would anyone stop in this shower to get out of their car and make purchases in the shop? Probably not. But she was proved wrong when the door opened and not one but three people stepped inside, obviously a young family with the husband and wife and the little girl holding on to the woman's long skirt so tight. The woman had a baby wrapped up in a lace shawl as well, rocking it gently up and down and making vaguely soothing noises; probably it was fretting and they had taken the chance to give it some air as much as anything. They all stayed by the door while the man walked around the shop and picked up some bags of apples, a large bottle of 7-Up and a family bag of Tayto crisps, all probably being bought with keeping the daughter quiet on a long car journey in mind.

It was as the man was studying the sweets on display that the woman appeared to pluck up her courage and make her way over to the till, the girl trailing after her and still holding on tight to her skirt. Mary smiled at her, wondering only vaguely about how mother and daughter really didn't look that much alike, the woman golden haired and her face and neck dusted with freckles and the little girl with the reddest hair, the palest skin and the greenest eyes that she could ever remember seeing.

"What can I help you with, dear?"

"Would you have any infant formula?" Her voice was low and sweet with a local hint to it. "I'm worn out, you see." She nodded at the baby in her arms, lifting it slightly as if to show off the one who had drained her dry. The baby peered out from a veritable nest of lace and something that looked like velvet, and yawned solemnly as if bestowing a great favor upon her.

"I'll see what I can do. How old is…?" She paused, waiting for some hint, since she didn't really want to call the child 'it'. The woman opened her mouth but didn't reply; she looked at a loss. For some reason this didn't worry Mary. Why should she be worried?

"She's near to four months old." This came from the girl, who didn't look more than eight years at the most but who, Mary thought before she forgot instantly, looked as if she had been eight for a very long time indeed.

"Thank you, Brigid. Yes, she's four months. Listen-"

"She's a pretty little one, isn't she?" she enthused as she went to find the formula, cutting the woman off. "What's her name?"

"Ciara, but-" The woman spoke quickly before she stopped, and as Mary turned back with the formula in hand she looked over at the man who was now making his way to the till, having added a bag of Worthers Originals, a big bottle of water and several other savory items to his hoard and looking very pleased with himself. He smiled at her as he placed the items on the counter. What a charming man he was, she thought, as she scanned everything and brought up the total, including the formula which he had thought was "A good idea, Sinead." She couldn't understand why the woman had looked away from her husband as if she were fighting the urge to say something dreadful in reply.

The daughter, Brigid, looked between the two with eyes that Mary might at another time have recognized as old, and very knowing.

"That'll be twenty one pounds and fifty five pee, please," she said at last, piling the things into a plastic bag, and he placed the money on the counter and pushed it towards her, taking the bag in exchange with a smile and a wink. He put his arm around his wife and steered her back towards the door, but little Brigid stayed in front of the till for a moment, letting go of her mother's skirt for the first time since she had come in.

She said quietly, "Thank ye for ye help," with rather an odd, quaint accent, and then ran out after her parents.

Mary thought no more of them after that, not wondering why they had been bone dry when she hadn't heard a car pull up and they must have had to walk there, nor thinking that she had heard the beating of a horse's hooves running off as soon as Brigid had gone out the door. She certainly didn't think on the fact that the money the black haired man with the tawny yellow eyes had given her soon changed into two leaves and a handful of pebbles.**

* * *

I shall assume that everyone knows what merrows are, or at least can guess from the rather sparse description. Think 'The Little Mermaid', only more creepy.**

**Selkies are seals that, when they take off their skins, become humans. Or at least human shaped. Female selkies apparently can't grasp the concept of preventing lonely young men getting hold of their detached skins and thus becoming said lonely young man's wife. Male selkies, generally ticked off by the whole scale seal slaughter that's taken place over the past few centuries, not to mention the fact that humans keep stealing their women, cause storms to wreck boats.**

**Also, if you throw a changeling on the fire to make it reveal itself, it apparently flies up the chimney laughing and shrieking, and the true baby will be found at the front door. Another method is to pretend to brew water in empty eggshells, the sheer absurdity of which will make the changeling point it out, thus revealing its great age. **_**Then **_**you throw it on the fire.**

**I wish I could only have made something like that up, especially considering the unfortunate accidents (and sometimes deliberate murders) that have happened because of it.**

**This entire story is, of course, set before Ireland changed to the Euro, before anyone points out that I got the currency wrong. I really liked the old currency, and I thought it was rather a pity that they changed it. Now I can no longer look at a fifty pence piece and see a kingfisher where the Queen's head is in England. Sigh.**

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Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!


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